A Shadow on the Streets of London
by Random Phantom
Summary: A sequel to "The Case of the Vengeful Ghost": A dangerous man is stalking Holmes and Watson, and Holmes underestimates the threat he poses. A game of hide-and-seek is the last thing they wanted after their recent trip to Dartmoor...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is my second fic, the promised sequel to the first; _"The Case of the Vengeful Ghost". _Many thanks to those of you who read and reviewed it; I was and still am deeply touched by your positive responses. I hope that this story lives up to the previous one. At a very late stage of writing it, I changed the time line so that it is post-hiatus; I apologise for any errors that crept in as a result. I did this because I want this fic to fit in with something else that my muse is kicking around the back of my head. As ever, please excuse glaring errors - I do not have a proof reader. Comments and constructive criticisms are very welcome. Thank you for reading._

~*~

A Shadow on the Streets of London

~*~

Holmes stared out of the window of his Baker Street lodgings pensively, down at the cobbled road below. It was late January, and although most of the winter snow had melted away underfoot, it was still grey and cold, with a damp chill in the air and treacherous ice underfoot. In all his time in Europe during his hiatus, the one thing he had not missed was winter weather.

The great detective turned away from the window, pulling his dressing gown slightly tighter around himself as he went back towards the fireplace. He sat down in his chair, picked up his empty brandy glass, examined it closely, and then set it down again. He picked up his pipe, toyed with it, and then set it down again, before staring dejectedly into the fire.

It had been three days since he and Watson had returned from Dartmoor, solving their second case involving Sir Henry Baskerville. They had returned triumphant, ridding him of a fake skeletal figure that ha been haunting the poor man. Holmes had expected that London would welcome him back with open arms and a wealth of cases to pick and choose from. He had been somewhat wrong; there had been nothing, not even a wealthy spinster with a lost lap-dog or a lovelorn fiancé with a runaway bride.

Holmes sighed, slouching deeper into the armchair, already able to feel the teeth of the dog of depression sinking into the back of his neck. Oh, how he loathed inactivity!

It was the weather that bore the blame, Holmes was sure of it. The damp, icy chill and the ever-present mist had half of the city lying shivering in bed with cold, flu, bronchitis or worse, and the other half was keeping a low profile. That included the criminal element. Holmes let forth another heart-wrenching sigh, which trailed off into a growl low in the back of his throat. He thought of applying himself to a chemical experiment designed to make traces of gunpowder visible to detection, but he lacked a certain component and he had no desire to venture outside on such a miserable day.

There was a soft click, and Holmes distantly registered that the front door had opened, and then shut. He hoped, for one brief moment, that it was a client; but a familiar, albeit weary, tread on the stair made him sink slightly more into the chair. He listened as Watson paused by the door, smothering a cough; Holmes realised that the doctor was trying to decide whether to come into the sitting room, or attempt the climb up to his own chamber. Holmes also realised that, unless he wanted to sink into the oblivion of his seven percent solution far too early in his doldrums for it to see him through to the next case, he did not wish to be alone.

"Watson!" he called out, sharply, "Please do stop lurking outside the door; come in here, and warm yourself by the fire."

There was another, muffled cough, which might also have been the bark of a laugh, and the sitting room door opened. Watson closed it quickly behind him, shutting out the chilly draft that had followed him inside from the street. He set down his medical bag by the door, and walked carefully over to the chair, the way he always did when he was trying to disguise his limp. Sitting down, he allowed himself a small sigh, stretching out his legs, resting them on the footstool in front of him.

"You have been down by the river, I see," Holmes said, dryly, casting his eyes over the mud-splattered hems of Watson's trousers, "no doubt treating the ailments of the poorer folk… you have set a broken limb today; I see the remains of white plaster around your fingernails – probably some unfortunate who slipped on the ice. You have not been well paid for your troubles, as you did not stop at a bar or club on the way home, and you left so early this morning that I do not doubt that you have spent some time at the hospital as well."

"All correct, as usual," Watson smiled, though the warmth did not reach his eyes, "many members of the hospital staff are now its patients; there is a particularly virulent strain of 'flu going around this winter…"

"…One which you, my dear fellow, are going to catch if you are not careful," Holmes told him, sternly, "really – there must be other doctors in the city who can assist!"

"At this time of year…? Not enough, Holmes – not nearly enough…" Watson sighed, closing his eyes, and leaning back in the chair.

Holmes eyed the doctor carefully; their trip to Dartmoor had been arduous for both of them, although he had not been stuck out on the moor for several hours in the snow like the unfortunate Watson. The doctor had returned to London with a lingering cold, and a work load that would have made Holmes envious were they more his kind of cases.

Watson coughed, sleepily, already half-dozing in his chair. Holmes slowly got to his feet and crossed to the drinks cabinet, where he took down two clean glasses. He was just pouring the first drink when he heard a heavy pounding at the front door. He hesitated only momentarily, hearing Mrs Hudson answer it, before he continued to pour, deciding to wait to see what portents his visitor might bring. A case, perhaps…!

He turned, as the sitting room door opened, and Mrs Hudson stepped inside quickly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said, sounding genuinely regretful, "only there's a young man to see Dr Watson, and he's awfully distressed…"

"I see," Holmes said, keeping an even tone, even as his hopes fell; "Watson?"

The doctor sighed, tiredly, but he was already getting to his feet; "Show him in, please."

Mrs Hudson nodded, and ducked back outside, making way for a thin, pale-faced man. He was about five-foot-eleven, with straw-blonde hair and a quick, furtive manner. His blue eyes jumped from Holmes to Watson and back again, and he almost fell to his knees in pleading, his filthy hands reaching out, without actually touching either of them.

"Easy now, Harry," Watson said, gently, "What on earth's the matter? Holmes, this is Harry Frederickson, a dock-hand from down by the river."

"Sir," Harry said, quickly, to Holmes, giving a deferential nod, as he turned beseeching eyes towards Watson, "doctor, it's Molly – my wife, sir – she's bad again, her chest – she fell, and she… she couldn't get up, and, and the children…"

"We'd better go straight there," Watson nodded, briskly, "Holmes – I don't know how long…"

"Just be careful, Watson," Holmes replied, nursing his brandy glass gently in one hand even as he spoke.

Watson dipped him a nod and a quick smile, snatching up his hat, coat, bag and cane, before following the dock-hand quickly down the stairs. Holmes watched, through the window, as the doctor called for a cab – one he could ill afford, no doubt – to get them both to his patient sooner rather than later. Holmes sighed. The poor always did without a doctor until it was usually too late, unable to afford the cost of medical services. There really ought to be some sort of national provision for such things, in his opinion. He made a mental note to mention it to his politically-minded brother at some point…

Bored, he turned away from the window. Perhaps, just for a few hours, oblivion would be nice…

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes had long since emerged from a self-induced catatonic state, and was relaxing with a drink by the fire, reading a monograph on the art of identifying the direction of an attack from the blood spatter left on a wall or other flat surface – one he himself had written and published under a pseudonym several years ago – when he heard the front door again. The mantle-clock had not long since struck one, and there was a light but persistent icy rain tapping out a staccato rhythm on the window-pane.

The footsteps on the stairs were heavy and slow, and Holmes felt a prickle of concern as he heard Watson pause twice on the way up. Recalling that Watson had paid for a cab earlier that evening to get to a patient down by the river; it occurred to Holmes that the doctor probably would not have had the funds for the return journey. Instead, he would have walked back in the cold, foul weather. Holmes cursed himself for not having thought to slip a sovereign or two into the doctor's purse earlier on.

Holmes got to his feet, intending to offer assistance, but as the sitting room door opened, he aborted the action and instead went to pour a drink. Watson silently set his bag down, moving slowly and stiffly as he removed his coat and hat, set his cane in the stand by the door, and, making no effort to disguise his limp, he crossed to his chair and eased himself into it.

Holmes crossed over to his side, and held out the glass quietly. Watson accepted it with a murmur of thanks, as Holmes re-took his seat in the other armchair.

"I am so very sorry, my dear fellow," he said, softly, at last.

"There was little that I could do," Watson sighed, his voice hoarse from the winter air, "the poor woman died only an hour or so after I arrived. Two of her sons are ill, as well – one of them should pull through, but the youngest…"

Watson broke off and shook his head, taking a sip of the brandy, trying to hide a wince as he swallowed, suppressing a shiver. His clothes were damp from the rain, and his face was pale, with dark smudges of tiredness under his eyes. Holmes wished that it were he that was so busy, and Watson, who needed it most, the one with so much free time in which to rest and recover…

"Perhaps you should go and change into some dry clothes, my dear fellow?" Holmes suggested, quietly.

"Yes, of course," Watson muttered, sleepily, making no effort to move.

Holmes waited for a moment, and then got to his feet again. He retrieved the half-empty glass from the doctor's limp fingers before it could fall; setting it on the table between the two chairs, within easy reach. He then went to his room, pulling one of the blankets from the bed, which he draped over Watson's legs, before he stoked up the fire a little. Satisfied with his efforts, he re-took his place by the lamp, and continued his reading while his friend slept in the warm glow of the firelight.

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes awoke suddenly to the soft chime of the mantle clock, surprised to find that he, too, had dozed off in his armchair. He quietly got up and went to his room, stretching out the stiffness and cramp of the awkward sleeping position, as he washed and changed his clothing quickly. Feeling fresher, he went back into the sitting room, where Watson still slept, his head resting against the high side of the chair. Holmes thought of calling Mrs Hudson to prepare some breakfast, but, noting that it was only half-past-six in the morning, he doubted that she would appreciate the interruption.

He paced the room slowly, glad that the dark depression of the last few days seemed to be abating. He considered taking a trip to the library, and thought about perhaps doing so in disguise; he did so detest being recognised in public. It had never happened so often until his apparent death and subsequent resurrection, of which the newspapers had seen fit to make a most tiresome fuss over…

Holmes frowned; he really could do with a cup of coffee, but he had not the faintest idea of how to make it for himself. He was wondering the extent of the tongue-lashing he might get from his esteemed landlady for waking her up, balancing this against the benefits of a hot coffee on a chilly morning.

For something to do, he stoked the dying fire, until it once again picked up and flames danced in the hearth, gradually warming the sitting room. Watson shifted uncomfortably in the chair, coughing. With a groan, he stirred, and awoke slowly.

"My apologies, Watson," Holmes said, quietly, "I should not have allowed you to sleep in the chair…"

"I am quite alright, Holmes," Watson replied, looking – and sounding – anything but; "I hope that you have, at the very least, had some sleep?"

"Some, old chap," Holmes replied, with a quirk of a smile, "I am afraid it is a little early for breakfast, but perhaps a glass of water…?"

"Please," Watson nodded, stifling a cough, shivering, "it's awfully cold in here."

"It will soon warm up," Holmes assured him, handing over a glass of water from a jug on the sideboard, before shovelling another scoopful of coal onto the fire for good measure, "I was thinking of making a trip to the library this morning, and then, perhaps, a lunch at Marcini's, if you would care to join me?"

"Perhaps for the lunch, if my rounds will allow it," Watson replied, coughed, and took a sip of the water.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by an almighty uproar from outside. There was a loud crash, and then shouting split the early morning air. Holmes had whipped around at the initial noise – Watson was half-out of his chair, coughing, catching the fireplace for support before he staggered to the window. Holmes was just ahead of him, crossing the room in three easy strides to stare out of the glass onto the foggy street below. It seemed, somehow, in the mist, the milkman's cart had collided with a private hansom cab.

"Dear God," Watson muttered, stepping back from the window, "my bag… where's my bag?"

"By the door," Holmes answered, absently, and then realised that his friend was already out of the door and halfway down the stairs, "no, Watson…"

He took off after the doctor, and plunged into the icy, early morning mists that hugged the cobbled streets. Watson had already ripped off his jacket, and had used it to cover the milkman, who lay stunned on the ground, having been jolted from his seat on the cart by the impact. The cabbie was obviously dead, and there were no passengers; he had probably been off to start his shift somewhere – from the respectable state of the carriage and the spacious luggage racks, Holmes deduced that he must have a good spot by one of the train stations...

A few passers-by stopped to gawk, and Holmes grabbed a young man, ordering him to run and fetch another cab to take the injured man to hospital. Two sturdy looking workmen were employed to calm the horses, and the damaged vehicles were soon led from the roads. Watson worked quickly, dressing the wounded man's injuries, talking to him the whole time, until the rescue cab arrived. Watson saw the injured man safely inside, as Holmes quickly paid the cabbie before Watson could attempt to. The milkman, not seriously hurt, was taken on his way to hospital.

"He said a man ran out in front of his truck, making the horse swerve into the path of the cab," Watson said, quickly, "he said that this man – no description, save that his hair was light brown – was standing under our window. He had been for some time. Jeremiah – the milkman – had been watching him the whole time he was doing his rounds up this street. He said it looked like the man was waiting – until he suddenly dived out in front of the cart, screaming wildly at the horse, scaring the poor beast into the path of the hansom. Whoever the man was, he's disappeared…"

"Did anyone see what happened?" Holmes called out, but the crowd was already dispersing, with nothing left to see.

Holmes scowled, as the few figures passed on into the mists, leaving them alone in the road. Watson knelt down, and began packing his equipment back into his bag, from where it was strewn on the cobbles. Holmes stood by, staring sightlessly down the street into the mists as he waited. Watson finished, checked his bag, coughed, and gave a slight, self-deprecating laugh.

"Holmes, old fellow, would you mind awfully…?"

"You need not ask, my dear Watson," Holmes replied, reaching down and offering his hand, helping the doctor climb awkwardly to his feet, "come, we must get you inside; you are chilled to the bone, and this damp air will do neither of us any good…"

Watson opened his mouth to comment, when Holmes suddenly whipped around. Watson turned slightly; hoof-beats sounded thunderously on the cobblestones – a lone horse was approaching, and dangerously fast.

"Look out, Watson!" Holmes cried, and threw himself recklessly at the doctor.

They both went crashing into the curb as a frenzied rider galloped past them, vanishing into the mist, laughing crazily as he went. Holmes stared after the man – for it had been a man – glaring slightly. He had not seen the man's face, but marked in his memory the light brown hair, the hunch of his shoulders, and the excellent horsemanship displayed in controlling the wild steed.

"Are you injured, Watson?" Holmes asked, quickly, turning towards his comrade.

"I am… quite… alright…," Watson replied, breathlessly, struggling to sit up, "my God, Holmes – who was that?"

"I did not see his face," Holmes responded, introspectively, as he helped Watson to his feet, "but… I fear it may be a face that is known to us. Such thought into getting us out into the open at such an early hour – we have been observed, Watson – he knew at least one of us was awake when the fire was stoked and lit the room from the inside. But – deductions can wait for a moment – my dear fellow, here you are shivering in your shirt-sleeves while my paranoia rages! Come, we need to get you inside…"

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes reached out and took the doctor's bag from him with one hand, using the other to steady the man as they made their way back up to the house. The noise had obviously disturbed Mrs Hudson, who poked her head out of her chambers sleepily, querying what had happened.

"A cart accident outside," Holmes told her, quickly, "Dr. Watson was attending the wounded, and I profess it is extremely cold out – I wonder if you would be so kind as to make us some coffee?"

"Of course, Mr Holmes – right away!"

Holmes smiled, and turned his attention back to Watson, who was making his way up the stairs with painful difficultly. Holmes stepped up, and, ignoring his protest, took the doctor's arm and assisted him up the steps, into the sitting room.

"Now – sit here, by the fire…"

Watson sank into the chair without further argument, unable to suppress his shivering any longer. His jacket was gone, lost; taken in the cab in an effort to keep the poor milkman warm. His shirt was damp, both from the morning mist, and from the puddles of rainwater and melted ice he had landed in so jarringly when Holmes had pushed him out of the way of the rogue rider. His trousers, too, were wet from kneeling on the ground, and his leg ached so horribly that he groaned aloud as he lifted his feet onto the footstool.

Having made the self-diagnosis and deciding that he was fine, really, Watson rubbed his hands together, trying to stimulate the circulation back into his fingers. He coughed, once, to clear his throat, but having done so, he found he could not stop.

Eventually, he was able to draw breath, and looked up to find Holmes staring at him in a mixture of surprise and concern. The detective held out a glass of water, and Watson took it gratefully with shaking hands, sipping it carefully so as not to trigger another coughing fit.

"My dear fellow," Holmes said, quietly, "I do not think that you should go out on your rounds this morning – you really are not well…"

"But if not I, who else-?"

"No doubt your colleagues will be able to share your workload for a few days," Holmes replied, gently, but firmly; "here – I have your dressing gown; do please take off that wet shirt."

Watson growled something under his breath, reluctantly got to his feet, and quickly removed the shirt, pulling on the warm, dry dressing gown gratefully as he settled back down into the chair again, coughing harshly into a handkerchief. At that moment, Mrs Hudson bustled into the room, bearing a tray of coffee and toast.

"I'll make a proper breakfast at a more reasonable hour," she told them, "my goodness, doctor, you do look pale – was that you I heard coughing? Should I send for a medic, Mr Holmes?"

"That will not be necessary," Watson replied, quickly, before Holmes had a chance, "they will be overworked enough as it is with cases far more serious than my own. It is little more than a chill; with a day's rest I shall be well enough."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Holmes added, already eyeing the much-coveted coffee.

The landlady nodded quickly, and left the room, no doubt to retire to bed for a short while longer. Watson made as if to rise, but Holmes waved him back into the seat, and went to pour some coffee himself. He carried a cup to Watson, who accepted it with grateful thanks, nearly spilling it as his hands shook unsteadily. Holmes pretended not to notice the slight infirmity, as Watson cursed himself softly, and fought to get the tremors under control.

Holmes was concerned at how easily Watson had given in to the suggestion of a day's rest; it was testament to how under the weather the usually stubborn doctor must be feeling.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, broken only by Watson's coughing and the crackling of the fire in the grate. It was almost at a reasonable enough hour to call Mrs Hudson for breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee, when there was a heavy pounding on the front door; impatient and loud. Holmes gritted his teeth and glanced across at Watson, hoping, this time for less selfish reasons, that it was not another medical emergency. He heard Mrs Hudson respond to the door, and heard quick, familiar footfalls on the steps as the wiry figure of Inspector Lestrade burst into the room. Holmes rose quickly to greet him, as the Inspector took a moment to catch his breath; he had been running, but not too far – Holmes recognised the distinctive Baker Street gritty-grey dirt on the Inspector's shoes.

"Lestrade," he greeted the newcomer, as Mrs Hudson cleared away the early breakfast things and went away quickly, "you have attended an incident nearby, and there is something in the nature of that happenstance that has quite startled you. I imagine that the scene is nearby, and recent; there is blood not yet dry on your shirtsleeve where you have checked some poor unfortunate for a pulse…"

"And he still has one, if you and Dr Watson would be so kind?" Lestrade exclaimed, impatiently, "I will explain on the way. Please – we must hurry!"

Holmes was already reaching for his hat and coat, Watson but a few steps behind him, already pulling on his now-dried shirt from earlier in place of his dressing gown, not wasting time on fetching a clean one. It was not until they were on the street outside and Holmes heard Watson's sharp breaths catching in his throat that he remembered that this was not such a good idea. He opened his mouth to speak, but Watson cut him off sharply.

"Which way, Inspector?" he asked, giving Holmes a warning glare.

"This way, gentlemen – follow me!"

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade led them down Baker Street, ducking through several alley ways, until they came upon a grisly scene. An elderly man lay upon the ground, groaning, grievously wounded, if the copious amounts of blood were anything to go by. Watson immediately knelt beside him, using his cane to awkwardly lower himself to the ground, before opening his now-depleted medical bag and setting to work, cleaning and bandaging the wounds.

"Most of the cuts are superficial, not too deep," he reported, as he worked, "these wounds were made with a very sharp knife, I think…"

"Or a scalpel," Holmes added, sounding both thoughtful and ominous at the same time.

"We're fetching the Yard-wagon to take him to the hospital," Lestrade told them, "it looked like a robbery gone wrong, until we noticed this when the daylight got a bit brighter…"

Holmes turned to the wall as Lestrade gestured, and the detective slowly raised one eyebrow. Slumped by the wall, half-hidden behind a pile of rotting crates, was another figure, apparently that of a woman. Holmes leaned in closer, and then, as the features became clearer in the shadowy alley-way, he could not prevent a gasp as he realised what his keen eyes were seeing.

The long brown hair that had looked so feminine was nothing more than a wig… and the apparently female figure was, in reality, a skeleton in a yellow silk dress.

~*~

"His name is Dr. James Buckhannon," Holmes reported, as he paced the sitting room of Baker Street later that morning, "he is a vicious killer, and his motive is money. He originally targeted his elderly patients, either murdering or defrauding them, until he became suspected and fled the region. We encountered him just over a week ago, where he was attempting to scare Sir Henry Baskerville into leaving his ancestral home; I believe he intended to rob Sir Henry. He was arrested only a few days ago and sentenced to five years…"

"I'll check with the local constabulary," Lestrade said, quickly, "is there anything else that you can tell me?"

"Many things, Inspector, but I doubt you would grasp the relevance of most of them, so I shall confine myself to a mere physical description. He is around five-feet-eleven, with blue-grey eyes and an upright bearing. He is right-handed, and chews his nails to the quick. He has a small scar upon his chin, and his hair is a light brown colour, although he affects cheap disguises on occasion and may have darkened it as he did when we first met him. He has a Derbyshire accent, is as well-educated as any doctor should be, and he tends to carry weapons about his person, including a pistol, though he a poor shot. He is slim, and an excellent horseman, and something of a drinker. He is vicious and violent, but he detests confrontation. He will choose infirm victims, or seek to incapacitate them before making his attack."

"We'll look out for him," Lestrade said, dryly, "what about the skeleton?"

"Bury the poor thing," Holmes said, lightly, "I have deduced all I can from it – it is the same puppet used to terrify poor Sir Henry Baskerville only a week or so ago."

"This Buckhannon," Lestrade asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, "would he be after revenge on you, by any chance?"

Holmes gave a short bark of a laugh; "My dear fellow, whatever gave you that idea? Go; tell me if he has escaped or not – it could as easily be a vicious prankster who has heard of the case and seeks to rattle us. He will not. Good day to you, Inspector!"

Lestrade nodded and mumbled his goodbyes, as Holmes watched him leave. He turned back to Watson, who was sitting on the couch in his dressing gown once more, having excused himself briefly on return to change into clean clothes.

"You already know Buckhannon must have escaped, and that he is seeking revenge against you," Watson said, in a low voice, "you need to be careful, Holmes – he's a dangerous man."

"I am aware of it, Watson," Holmes responded, pacing the room slowly, "but you should also be cautious. I believe Buckhannon orchestrated the accident this morning, and that it was he who tried to run us down on horseback. We must watch ourselves, and be alert."

Watson nodded in agreement, before being wracked by another coughing fit that left him gasping for breath. Holmes frowned at him, but Watson waved off the concern.

"I'm fine, Holmes," he assured him, "it's nothing… I… I just need a moment…"

He broke off, coughing again, and Holmes cast his eyes about in alarm, and set upon the doctor's black leather bag. He retrieved it quickly, and set it on the couch beside him, opening it quickly.

"I am sure that there is something in here that you would prescribe to a patient in such difficulty," Holmes announced, "whatever it is, my dear fellow, I do implore you to take some, and to get some rest… no, you need not climb the stairs, my bed is much closer."

"And have all those grim portraits staring down at me?" Watson gasped, "no; the settee will do very well, I think, if I will not be in your way…?"

"Of course not," Holmes replied, watching as Watson drew a large brown bottle from his bag, noting that it was nearly empty, "I was planning to go to the tobacconist this afternoon; I will pass the pharmacy on the way back if you would like me to collect anything for you…? I will fetch a pen and ink; you must have a list of things that need replacing…"

Watson merely smiled, took a very small sip of medicine from the bottle, and then set it to one side carefully, easing himself down and lying full length on the settee. He gave Holmes a list of the supplies he had used up over the past few days, and asked him to take the money from his purse. Holmes agreed, without having any intention of doing so, and, before he left, retrieved a blanket, which he draped carefully over Watson.

"Do get some rest, doctor," Holmes told him, "I will be no more than thirty minutes or so, I should think."

"Be careful, Holmes," Watson murmured, sleepily, "Buckhannon's out there… please; be careful…"

"I will, Watson. Rest now; I will see you later, for a late lunch."

Holmes stepped back, pulled on his coat, and smiled; Watson was asleep before he even left the room.

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

Watson awoke sometime later, in a fit of coughing that left him breathless and shaking. With unsteady hands, he uncorked the medicine bottle, and carefully took a sip; he had so little left he did not wish to waste it. There was no guarantee that the pharmacy would have the stocks to replace it, especially given the virtual epidemic that was sweeping the city. The pharmacy… Watson's eye fell upon the mantle-clock, and he frowned; he had only been asleep for an hour or so, but Holmes should have been back long ago.

Slowly, Watson sat up, waited for a sudden rush of dizziness to subside, and then got to his feet. Holmes's hat and coat were still missing from the stand, and there were no packages on the table to suggest that he had returned and then gone out again.

Worry gnawed at the back of Watson's mind for some inexplicable reason; it would not be the first time that Holmes had gone out for just a few minutes and returned several hours later, having found some interesting character to follow or having his attentions diverted by a Yard constable seeking assistance. However, with Buckhannon probably stalking the streets outside, Watson could not help but be concerned.

He crossed to the window; the weather was still abhorrently miserable, and there was no sign of Holmes in the sparse groups of people below. Watson sighed, and frowned; it was not that far to the tobacconists, and the pharmacy was even closer… he would not rest easy if he did not at least try those two places. Shrugging quickly out of his dressing gown, he pulled on a jacket, coat, scarf and hat. He took his sturdiest walking stick from the stand, and, turning up his collar, made his way out of the house and onto the rain-washed street.

As it was closest, he tried the pharmacy first, and was worried when the pharmacist told him that he had not seen Mr Holmes at all that morning, nor could he recall having seen him pass the window, although it had been a busy day.

"If you see him, would you let him know I stopped by?" Watson asked, hoarsely, suppressing a cough with little success, "We seemed to have… missed each other, on the street…"

"Of course, doctor," the pharmacist nodded, with a slight smile, "and, ah, while you're here…? Perhaps a bottle of something for that cough might be in order?"

Watson hesitated, and then decided that even if Holmes did drop by the shop later, two bottles of cough syrup would soon disappear in this weather.

"Yes, thank you…" he nodded, paid the man, and slipped the bottle into his coat pocket.

Ducking out of the shop, and keeping his head down against the chill wind and persistent drizzle, he strode on the next few streets to the tobacconist Holmes favoured. The man at the counter nodded in recognition.

"He was in here earlier – about an hour ago," the man told him, scratching his thick beard, thoughtfully, "when he left, he almost bumped into another fellow; they apparently knew each other, because they got a cab together, and headed off back towards Baker Street, or so I thought…"

"Thank you," Watson tipped the brim of his hat slightly, "most helpful; I have probably missed him along the way…"

Leaving the shop, Watson knew that there was no way that he could have missed Holmes; it would only have been a short cab ride back to Baker Street from here, and if Holmes had been in the shop an hour ago, then he would not have taken so long to get back to their lodgings. Watson walked slowly down the street, deep in thought, wondering what could have happened to the detective. He sincerely hoped that the man Holmes had apparently met on the street could be counted as a friend; the alternative was too much to think about. However, in the back of his mind, a persistent voice reminded him that Holmes had very, very few friends…

Arriving back at Baker Street, he found that the short walk had exhausted him, and he climbed the stairs wearily. He entered the sitting room, to find Mrs Hudson doing her best to dust the cluttered mantelpiece.

"Oh! Good afternoon, doctor," she said, brightly, "how are you feeling?"

"Quite well, thank you," he responded, as convincingly as he could, "I say; have you heard anything from Holmes? He went out a while ago, and hasn't returned…"

"Not unless the letter on the table is from him," Mrs Hudson gestured, and Watson crossed the room to retrieve the note, "You really do look like you could use a hot drink and a few hours' rest, if you don't mind my saying…"

Watson opened his mouth to reply politely, but the words died on his lips as he read the contents of the letter. He was suddenly aware that Mrs Hudson was speaking to him, and he dragged himself back to the present.

"I'm sorry?" he said, distantly, with an uncertain smile.

"I said; maybe you should sit down," Mrs Hudson repeated, gently, "you really have gone terribly pale, doctor…"

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, really… no, I shan't require any tea, thank you, I will be needing to go out again in a few minutes… yes, it is important, I'm afraid, thank you…"

The housekeeper eventually bustled out of the door, and Watson sank heavily into his armchair, as he stared at the note in his hands. He made as if to rise, and then forced himself to take a moment. He steeled himself, and began to apply Holmes's methods to the note, as best he could.

The script was neat, educated, and written with a steady right hand. The stationary was unremarkable, as far as Watson could tell. There were no distinctive marks or stains, and the crispness of the wording made him suspect that the writer had been in no hurry. Creasing of the paper might indicate that the letter had been carried in a pocket for some time, before being hand delivered to Baker Street. Watson groaned aloud; that meant that this whole thing had been carefully planned and executed… literally, if he made the wrong decision.

Slowly, he stood up. He had a decision to make. It was only when he had already pulled on his coat and hat, pocketed his service revolver and taken his cane from the rack; that he realised that he had already chosen his course of action. He also realised that he really had no other choice. Stuffing the note into his pocket, he left the house as swiftly as he could, already hailing for a cab. He – and Holmes – had very little time…

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

The cab jerked and jolted its way down the cobbled streets as the driver whipped the horse into frenzy at Watson's insistence, despite the wet, slippery streets. It still seemed to take an age to reach the riverside, where Watson had the cabbie drop him off, before the doctor ducked into a side alley, already following the instructions he had committed to memory, though the note still nestled in his pocket.

The words ran unbidden through his mind as he walked as fast as he could, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he suppressed his coughing and concentrated on the task at hand.

_My dear doctor,_ the note had read; _I offer you a simple choice. Your friend Holmes is enjoying my hospitality at my waterside retreat. You may join us, and die by his side, or you may wait, and I will kill you at my leisure. You have until two o'clock this afternoon to join us, or I will kill him and then come for you. Here are the directions…_

The directions were clear, and to the point, and the letter was signed; 'Dr. J Buckhannon'.

Watson followed the instructions, walking as quickly as his bad leg and weakened health would allow; it was already coming up for an hour past noon, and he could not afford to get lost. He coughed, and had to pause to catch his breath. The filthy back alleys were virtually deserted, and the few eyes that watched him did so with detached interest. He was an incongruous sight in these parts; a well-dressed gentleman who walked with a cane and a slight limp, yet there was an air of determination and danger that forewarned from any attempt at a casual mugging.

The alleyways eventually led to a small warehouse, set a few hundred yards back from the bank of the river Thames, nestled between several similar structures. However, the peeling blue paint on the door demarked it as the one Watson was looking for. For the first time, he hesitated. He had little idea of how to approach. The direct approach might result in Buckhannon simply shooting him and then Holmes, and getting away with no-one any the wiser.

However, Buckhannon notoriously avoided confrontation – Watson was a crack shot, and Buckhannon, a veritable coward, would avoid placing himself in the line of fire. Even cowards could be dangerous – more so than a brave man, in Watson's experience… tired of thinking in circles, recognising that Buckhannon probably already knew that he was there, Watson took his cane firmly in his left hand, drew his service revolver with the right, and, pushing the door inwards slowly with his shoulder, he stepped into darkness.

~*~


	8. Chapter 8

In the darkness, Holmes blinked, and cursed his own stupidity for the thousandth time in a few short hours. Despite his promise to Watson to be careful, he had stepped out of the tobacconist and practically into Buckhannon's waiting arms. The murderous con-man had greeted Holmes like an old friend, and all the while the detective could do nothing, for there had been a pistol firmly buried into his ribs, hidden under a newspaper. Especially when Buckhannon had threatened dire reprisals for Watson and Mrs Hudson had Holmes not gone quietly.

The cab ride had seemed interminably long, and although Buckhannon had drawn the blinds, Holmes committed the route to memory, simply from the movements of the cab, the noises of the streets outside, and the faint aromas of the city. Buckhannon had made the cabbie drop them off, and Holmes had been tightly marched through twisting back alleys until they reached the warehouse Buckhannon had set aside. The whole time, the deranged doctor had murmured threats and intimidations, laughing and talking more to himself than to Holmes, before shoving Holmes down through a trapdoor into a small cellar.

That was where he now stood. The cellar was only twelve feet long by six feet wide, and Holmes, stretching up, could just about brush the floorboards above with his fingertips, meaning it was no more than eight-and-a-half feet high.

"A veritable prison," he murmured to himself, as he explored the tiny space carefully.

It was quite dark; the only light was the feeble amount that seeped through the floorboards above, and that was fading as the day grew darker. The walls were stone, and it was dank, damp, and cold. There was no bed or furniture, and the floor of the cellar was merely damp, compacted dirt. Holmes had very quickly worked out that the only escape route was through the trap door, which stood open above him. However, Buckhannon had said that he would simply blow his head off if he dared to poke it out of the gap, and the tell-tale shadow and creaking of floorboards as the man paced impatiently were more than enough proof of his presence.

It rankled at Holmes to know that he could do nothing, until his captor departed or fell asleep. Holmes knew he could last without sleep much longer than the average person, but the inaction of waiting for Buckhannon to doze off would test his patience to the limits.

"Do not worry, Mr Holmes," the whispered voice cut through the silence suddenly with a dry chuckle; "You will not be alone for much longer. I have arranged for Dr Watson to be provided with a map even he could follow, and I believe I hear his footstep outside… and he hesitates! You will remain silent, or I will shoot him where he stands!"

The distinctive click of a pistol cocking caused Holmes's cry of warning to fade in his throat. Straining his hearing, he heard the creak of door hinges as Watson – it was definitely he; the almost-unnoticeable limp was so distinctive – stepped inside the warehouse. Holmes closed his eyes and hung his head; every fibre of his being longed to call out a warning. He could see, in his minds' eye, Watson peering into the darkness, revolver in hand, ready to leap into action.

The floorboards creaked as the doctor took a few uncertain steps forwards, obviously waiting for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness of the warehouse. Holmes thought desperately for a way to warn his friend, knowing that somewhere in the dark, Buckhannon had a weapon trained right at him and would shoot if Holmes so much as breathed too loudly.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice; just above him, somewhere to the right, "Holmes, are you here?"

The detective felt his chest tighten slightly at the hoarseness of Watson's voice and the weariness in his tone; it seemed the doctor's short rest had done very little for his poor state of health, and Holmes could not help but feel responsible.

"Buckhannon!" there was a sharper note in the tone now, as Watson slowly crept forwards, "Where are you? If you've hurt him, I swear I'll-!"

Holmes never got to find out what the threat would have been, though he privately wondered at it later on; all he heard was the loud explosion of a pistol shot, and answering blast of that oh-so-familiar revolver, and then running footsteps, and he could bear it no longer.

"Watson!"

~*~


	9. Chapter 9

"Watson!" Holmes cried out again, sharply.

"Holmes…" there was relief in the tone, "it's alright, old man – he's fled. He's a poor shot, I'll say that much… where are you?"

"Down here, my dear fellow," Holmes called back, "There is a trap-door set in the floor, and I am in a cellar…"

Following the sound of his voice, Watson eventually found the opening.

"Ah," he said, "there you are… now, to get you out of there…"

"Take my coat, Watson," Holmes commanded, tossing the article up to him, "it will be strong enough, I'll wager…"

Watson obeyed, holding tightly onto the coat as Holmes used it to pull himself free of the damp, dirty hole. Watson immediately helped him back into the coat, for it was extremely cold in the old warehouse.

"Where is he?" Holmes snapped, whipping around quickly, "Blast this darkness! Buckhannon! Where is he? Buckhannon…!"

"Holmes," Watson said, gently, "I'm sorry, old fellow, but he's made a run for it, I fear. Come, you are freezing; we both need to get somewhere warm and dry…"

However, Holmes insisted on scouring the rest of the empty warehouse, and then the surrounding area. Watson could only watch, wondering what the great detective could possibly hope to find in the darkness. Holmes eventually returned to where the doctor stood outside the door of the shack, scowling in irritation.

"I lost his trail at the entrance to an alleyway," he explained, clearly annoyed with what he considered to be his own failure, "you were right, Watson – when he missed you with his first shot, he took tail and ran away."

"Thankfully, he's a poor shot, and a coward," Watson said, and then sneezed, mumbling an apology as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Indeed," Holmes nodded, eyeing his companion, "I hope he does not get another chance like that. My apologies, Watson; my carelessness put us both in danger."

"Do not dwell on it, my dear Holmes," Watson replied, lightly, and coughed into the handkerchief, "I say… it is deucedly cold out here…"

"Yes," Holmes nodded, taking Watson's arm and leading him down the alley, "come – let us find a cab to take us back to Baker Street… I find that after several hours in that cellar, I am desperately in need of some of Mrs Hudson's excellent tea…"

~*~


	10. Chapter 10

It took them some time to make their way back to the main road, whereupon it was another fifteen minutes of walking in the damp, persistent drizzle until they came across a cab. By then, both men were soaked and shivering; Watson was leaning heavily on his cane, coughing painfully, as Holmes nudged him into the cab before climbing in and rapping on the roof to signal to the cabbie to make haste.

"Buckhannon is still out there, somewhere, doctor," Holmes said, distantly, "I fear that although he is no real match for either of us, he will become something of a thorn in our sides…"

"You do not expect him to make another move soon, then?" Watson asked, his voice rasping in his raw throat as he spoke.

"No," Holmes shook his head, "I believe he had planned to kill you when you walked into the warehouse, and then me at his leisure… when his first shot missed, he panicked and ran. He will spend some time formulating his next plan, I would wager. He is not a particularly intelligent opponent."

The last words were spoken with something akin to contempt, and Watson gave a quick bark of a laugh, which dissolved into another wracking coughing fit which left him trembling and gasping for breath. Concerned, Holmes leaned forwards in his seat, reaching out with one hand to grasp Watson's shoulder.

"My dear fellow," Holmes murmured, "you really are quite ill, aren't you?"

"A mere cold, Holmes," Watson replied, with forced lightness, but little conviction, "I shall be fine with a change of clothes and a cup of tea…"

He trailed off, coughing again, painfully; struggling to draw breath. Holmes quickly switched seats to sit beside his companion, grasping his arm in horror.

"Watson!" he said, worry edging his voice, "Breathe, man! Slowly, now!"

Gasping and wheezing, Watson managed to get his breathing back under control, even as tremors wracked his body. Holmes kept hold of him for the duration of the journey back to Baker Street.

On arrival, Holmes quickly paid the cabbie, and helped Watson from the vehicle, despite the doctor's weak protests that he could manage. Holmes opened the front door to their lodgings with more force than he had probably intended, shed his coat and carelessly cast it to the floor. He then assisted Watson in removing his damp coat, and, taking the doctor's arm again, all but carried him up the stairs towards the living room.

Holmes pushed the door open, concerned only with getting Watson warm and dry before he considered sending for another doctor, but he froze in horror when he entered the room. Watson, exhausted, raised his head slowly, questioningly, and gasped, triggering another coughing fit.

Buckhannon simply smiled at them cruelly, the pistol he held pointed squarely at Holmes.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, evenly, "do come in, close the door, and make yourself at home…"

~*~


	11. Chapter 11

"Buckhannon," Holmes growled, "how did you get in here?"

"Your housekeeper was kind enough to allow me entry," the other man replied, clearly enjoying the detective's helplessness, "I merely had to pose as a client, and then here I was, warming myself by the fire. I had a horse waiting for me in one of the alleys… it took you a deucedly long time to get here."

"Where is Mrs Hudson now?" Watson rasped, weakly, leaning heavily against his cane for support, "If you've hurt her…"

Buckhannon laughed; "Relax, doctor – she sleeps soundly downstairs. I am so glad you still carry chloroform in your bag… I rarely see fit to maintain my own medical supplied these days, I make so much more money by simply defrauding the wealthy."

Watson spat a curse at him, and folded up coughing again; he would have fallen to his knees had it not been for Holmes's supportive arm at his elbow. Buckhannon's face twisted into a smirk.

"Oh, dear me," he commented, cocking his head to one side slightly; "that does not sound good. Bronchitis is the very devil, isn't it?"

"Bronchitis?" Holmes's head snapped up and he scowled at Buckhannon, "Damn your eyes, sir – what do you want with us here?"

"All in good time, Holmes," Buckhannon replied, pleasantly, "sit, both of you – on the settee. Keep your hands where I can see them…"

He motioned with the pistol and Holmes gritted his teeth, reluctantly, all the time cursing himself for the three-fold fool he thought himself to be, for having walked into Buckhannon's waiting trap not once, but twice. And now, here he was, a prisoner in his own home, with a madman holding a gun over him, and Watson sounding terribly ill…

Buckhannon's eyes were dangerously bright; the man believed that he had the upper hand. Holmes, by force of his own intimidating will, brought his thoughts under control and raised his head, coolly meeting Buckhannon's glare.

"Very well, sir, you have us," Holmes said, calmly, "do you now intend to simply shoot us? Or have you some wretchedly boring plot to make me suffer in my demise? I do implore you, dear fellow; get on with it, before I expire from boredom or old age first!"

Holmes allowed one hand to drop to his side on the settee, searching blindly for anything that could be used as a weapon. Buckhannon drew in a breath to curse him, stopped just short, and raised a tight smile.

"You will not provoke me, Mr Holmes," he responded, carefully, "you so very nearly ruined my life in Dartmoor, and you have a reputation for being as unshakeable as a bloodhound. You would have followed me to the ends of the earth to put me in gaol."

"You flatter yourself," Holmes snorted, dismissively, "such petty crimes as yours are hardly worth my energy in pursuing."

His hand brushed against Watson's jacket pocket; he had hoped to find the doctor's revolver, but instead, he found only a small glass bottle. It would have to do… his thin fingers gripped it tightly and he withdrew it, all the while not taking his eyes from Buckhannon.

"Petty!" Buckhannon's face flushed, "I shall be the most feared man in London for dispatching the famous Sherlock Holmes – and perhaps I might leave his loyal biographer alive long enough to recount the tale!"

"It is one I should never tell," Watson answered, his voice little more than a shaky whisper, "I would not even dignify you with a footnote in the text…"

Buckhannon's face twisted in fury, and he stepped forwards, raising the pistol as if to lash out at the doctor in his anger. Holmes took this as his opportunity; in one fluid motion he got to his feet, reached for the pistol with his left hand, as he swung his right hand and smashed the glass bottle against Buckhannon's temple. The pistol went high and discharged into the ceiling, showering them with mortar and plaster dust as the glass bottle splintered, covering Buckhannon and Holmes with a foul-smelling, sticky substance.

Startled by the attack, Buckhannon's strong instinct for self-preservation kicked in, and he tore away from Holmes, leaping out of the door. Holmes turned as if to follow, but he saw Watson move from the corner of his eye, as if the doctor intended to take up the pursuit as well.

Holmes turned, as the doctor tried to stand, and the detective lunged just in time to catch him as he fell. Holmes swore; Buckhannon had slipped out from his grasp again… he turned his attention back to Watson.

His quarry would simply have to wait.

~*~


	12. Chapter 12

Holmes carefully lifted his friend onto the couch. Watson's face was deathly pale, and there was a bluish tinge to his lips. Holmes took one of the doctor's hands in his; though the fingers were icy cold, a cursory touch of his forehead confirmed what Holmes had feared – Watson was feverish, and he was audibly wheezing for breath.

"Good Lord…" Holmes felt his chest tighten in sympathy, as that hated feeling of helplessness settled around him like a blanket of despair.

Forcing himself to act, Holmes shot to his feet, dived out of the room, and returned moments later with a blanket torn from his own bed. He cast this quickly over Watson, and was rewarded with a low groan. He quickly retrieved Watson's black leather bag from beside the door, as the stricken man forced his way back to consciousness, coughing, turning his head away as he did so.

"Oh, Watson," Holmes sighed, as his friend blinked up at him in hazy confusion, "confound my own stupidity. Why did you not tell me that you were becoming so grievously ill?"

"I… I did not realise myself, until we got the cab home," Watson gasped, his face contorting slightly in pain as one hand flicked involuntarily to clutch his chest, "so… sorry, old chap… you could have had him…"

"I will have him, Watson, in my own time," Holmes promised, reaching into the medical bag and pulling out a thermometer, "doctor, I must insist…"

Watson reluctantly took the thermometer, and then handed it back to Holmes a few minutes later. 101f. Holmes frowned.

"I should summon one of your fellow medicos," he said, sternly, "Do you have anything that you can take for this?"

Watson made a gasping, wheezing sound; Holmes started forwards in concern, and then he realised that the doctor was laughing, breathlessly.

"You… you broke my new bottle," Watson replied, pointing to the sticky substance Holmes was even now endeavouring to wipe from his hands with a handkerchief, "No, no – don't look like that… it was worth it…"

"Is it true, what Buckhannon said? You have bronchitis?"

"I… I suspect so," Watson wheezed, shakily, "It… it is not as… serious… as it seems. Merely… uncomfortable…"

He moved as if to sit up, but Holmes carefully pushed him back down, alarmed at how weak his friend appeared.

"Mrs Hudson…" Watson rasped.

"I will check on her," Holmes promised, "rest a moment, Watson… I will summon another doctor as soon as I am able to…"

"Not… necessary…" Watson breathed, but his eyes were already drifting shut.

Holmes hesitated for a long moment, listening to Watson's laboured breathing, before he ducked downstairs. He knocked on the door to Mrs Hudson's chamber, and listened for a long moment. There was no answer, but the sound of deep, even breathing was just about discernable. Loathe to enter a woman's chamber at all – let alone when the good lady was asleep inside – he was satisfied that Mrs Hudson was in good health and would probably awaken soon, with little more than a mild headache.

Heading slowly back up the stairs, Holmes was mentally cursing himself for allowing such a creature as Buckhannon to best him not once, but twice – and in the same day! He pushed the sitting room door open, and found Watson – the stubborn fool – trying to stand up, his face terribly pale, and visibly trembling.

"Watson – do sit down, for goodness' sake," Holmes told him, firmly, crossing the room with three long strides to push the other man back onto the settee, "Really, my dear fellow; shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Not with that madman out there," Watson shuddered, before turning his head away, smothering a hacking cough in his handkerchief, "I… I ought to check on Mrs Hudson…"

"She is merely sleeping," Holmes assured his friend, reaching out and momentarily resting his hand on the doctor's forehead, "You are feverish, Watson – you need to rest. You will be of no use to me if you push yourself to exhaustion… no, there is no need to attempt the stairs – the settee is comfortable enough. Sleep – I will send a message to Lestrade…"

Holmes waited until Watson acquiesced, before he went to the window. A glance down the street and a sharp whistle attracted the attention of one of the grubby Irregulars, whom Holmes dispatched to fetch both the Inspector, and a doctor…

~*~


	13. Chapter 13

Inspector Lestrade, long since used to being summoned to Baker Street at the drop of a hat, was nonetheless a little put out at receiving such a peremptory demand from some young street scallywag whom he otherwise might have wound up arresting for pick-pocketing. This, combined with the foul weather, a dull-witted cabbie who got lost and a long day at the Yard had put him into a depressive mood. An arrogant lecture on his own stupidity from Holmes, probably wanting to gloat over some case, was not what the Inspector wanted most right now.

He knocked on the door, and waited for Mrs Hudson to greet him with her customary welcome and an offer of tea. However, there was no reply. He knocked a little harder, thinking that perhaps the landlady was busy in the kitchen… instead, the second-floor window was flung open, and Holmes leaned out.

"For goodness's sake, Lestrade," he snapped, "the door is open. Do get inside, there's a good chap!"

The window slammed shut, and Lestrade groaned, wondering if it was too late to simply turn around and go home to his wife and bed. He was still thinking it, even as he pushed open the front door and wearily climbed the stairs. He made his way in through the sitting room door, thinking that he had already been adequately announced – to half of London, if the volume of Holmes's shout had been anything to go by.

"Alright, Holmes, I'm here, what's the…? Good God," he interrupted himself, as his eyes fell on Dr. Watson, who was lying under a blanket on the settee, being tended to by one of the police surgeons from the Yard, "What happened?"

"James Buckhannon happened, Inspector," Holmes replied, dryly, "I find that I no longer need you to find out whether he has escaped."

"He killed a duty sergeant; talked the fellow over to the bars of his cell, then strangled the poor chap before lifting his keys," Lestrade said, a little distantly, "he'd been gone a good while before anyone noticed – tiny little prison like that, hardly any guards at all… what happened here, Holmes?"

The detective summarised the events of the day, and Lestrade looked dumbfounded as the detective described how Buckhannon had gained access to the house.

"I'll see him hang for this, Holmes," Lestrade breathed, angrily, "By God, I will!"

Holmes simply gazed at him for a moment, and then gave a short, sharp nod; "First, we must find the infernal man."

"You don't know where he is?"

Holmes looked irritated; "I am a detective, not a psychic!"

Lestrade muttered an apology, and turned towards the settee, where the police surgeon, Dr. Whittaker, was just getting to his feet, a scowl fixed on his wide, ruddy face.

"How is he?" Holmes asked, keeping his voice steadily neutral.

"He'll live," the doctor replied, a trifle dismissively, "I concur with his self-diagnosis. Let the stubborn idiot treat himself; he knows what he's doing."

With that, the surgeon left, leaving Holmes and Lestrade staring after him, dumbfounded.

"I'm going to have words with that man," Lestrade growled, "What was all that about?"

"I told him with a bedside manner like his, it was a good job he confined himself to dead bodies," Watson croaked, from the couch, eliciting a jolt of surprise from Lestrade and a quirk of a smile from Holmes; "The insufferable man had the audacity to suggest I was merely malingering…"

The last word was said with undisguised disgust, even as Watson struggled to lever himself up to a sitting position. He glanced at them both, and frowned.

"Don't just stand there staring," he said, "we need to get out there and find Buckhannon, before he kills someone else!"

"I will," Holmes emphasised, "you, on the other hand, will stay here – you are in no fit state to go running about the city."

Watson's protest was lost in a bout of coughing, the severity of which made Lestrade wince.

"I'll go back to the Yard," the Inspector said, at last, "I'll have every man and his wife out on the streets tonight, if I have to. We'll find him, Holmes."

Lestrade turned to leave, but Holmes called him back. The Inspector turned, seeing an expression on the amateur's face that he was not used to seeing. Was that… uncertainty?

"Be careful, Lestrade," Holmes said, fidgeting a little uncomfortably, "Buckhannon is… cleverer than I gave him credit for. He is liable to be dangerous…"

"Of course, Holmes," Lestrade nodded, quickly, and ducked out of the door, heading back to the street below.

In truth, he was rattled; if Holmes was vaguely worried about this man, then Lestrade ought to be downright terrified.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

Holmes watched as Lestrade left, and then set himself to work. A quick whistle down the street summoned one of the younger Irregulars, and within fifteen minutes, every Irregular had abandoned their usual haunts and occupations and were out on the streets, hunting down the rogue physician who so tasked their esteemed employer.

While this was underway, Holmes retreated into his bedroom, and emerged an hour later, clad in a beggar's disguise, one eye twisted shut by a scar, wearing several layers of ragged, yet deceptively warm clothing.

"Watson," he murmured, crouching down by the settee.

The doctor turned, and, forcing his eyes open, met Holmes's gaze tiredly.

"Ah," he wheezed, "I see you're going to the theatre, then…"

Holmes gave a short bark of a laugh at the weak attempt at humour, and carefully reached out, rearranging the blanket over Watson as he spoke.

"I am going out, Watson," he said, in a low voice, "I have several contacts that this persona should be able to derive some information from. I will probably be back late; please, do not wait up for me… and do not attempt the stairs to your room; you may sleep in mine."

"Oh, do stop fussing, Holmes!" Watson groaned, but there was amusement in his tone, "At least do me two small favours?"

"Name them," Holmes said, quickly, keen to get out on the streets.

"Take my revolver," Watson told him, pointing to where the weapon lay on his desk, "and do not – I repeat; do not! – go after Buckhannon on your own. Promise me, Holmes!"

"I won't, Watson, I promise," Holmes reassured him, quietly, "now, I must go – I think I hear Mrs Hudson stirring downstairs, and I dread to think what she would say if she saw such a disreputable character as I in her lodging house!"

Watson chuckled, and then lapsed into a coughing fit, making Holmes wince.

"My dear chap; do try to get some rest," Holmes told him, when the fit subsided, "I will see you later."

He ducked out of the door, bounded down the stairs, and slipped out of the front door. Stooping low, and affecting a slow, shuffling gait, he was soon lost in the crowds.

~*~


	15. Chapter 15

Holmes had been correct; Mrs Hudson had recovered from her impromptu, drug-induced nap, and, despite a lingering headache and some confusion as to what had happened, she had quickly made her way up to the sitting room. She then spent half an hour fussing over Watson, who in turn told her to take a mild analgesic from his bag, and get some rest. They compromised; she would make him some tea, and then rest, while he would drink said tea, and rest.

It was following this exchange that Watson awoke some time later, still on the settee, his chest constricting as he coughed. The fit slowly subsided, and with a shaking hand, he picked up a glass of water from the floor. Sitting up slowly, groaning as sore muscles protested, he managed to take a drink. The sitting room was in darkness, save for a low-lit gas lamp on the table – obviously, Mrs Hudson had been up again at some point while he had been sleeping. He got up, turned up the lamp, and lit two more, giving the room a cosy glow. He stoked up the fire, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself as he settled into his armchair, arranging a blanket over his knees and opening up a yellow-backed novel.

He read for a while, but the headache, coughing and general weariness made it hard to focus. Eventually, he set the book aside and glanced up at the mantle-clock. It was long past midnight, approaching one in the morning – Watson had thought that Holmes would be back by now. He tried not to worry; Holmes could take care of himself.

Watson got up from the chair, and paced the room slowly. Eventually, the ache in his war-wounded leg reminded him that his health was presently below-par, and the tightness in his chest forced him to sit down so that he could catch his wheezing breath. Cursing his own weakness, he lay back on the settee again, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he could do to occupy his mind while his body repaired itself.

In the end, his body made the decision for him, and Watson was surprised to be awoken suddenly by an extremely cold hand placed on his forehead. He gasped and snapped awake, coughing in an effort to clear his throat and lungs, as gentle hands grabbed him and helped him to sit up.

"Easy now, Watson… I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you…"

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, hoarsely, "Your hands are freezing…!"

"No, my dear chap," Holmes replied, shaking his head in grim amusement, "you are feverish."

Watson shook his head, and brushed aside the concern; "Never mind that. How did you get on?"

"Several leads led me to an old pub, long since repossessed by a particularly litigious mortgage lender," Holmes replied, as he crossed the sitting room to his chambers, were he began to peel off the layers of his disguise, raising his voice so that he could be heard, "and empty now for many years, falling into rot and ruin. I investigated the location, but I did not go inside. I believe Buckhannon has broken in and is using the place as a free, untraceable lodging."

"Have… have you notified Lestrade?" Watson asked, suppressing a gasp as pain lanced suddenly though his chest.

"My dear fellow," Holmes smiled at him, coming back into the room as he tightened the cord of his dressing gown, "it is gone three o'clock in the morning; I doubt he would welcome the interruption to his much-needed sleep."

"Very considerate of you, Holmes," Watson murmured, trying to sit up, but instead falling back with a cough and a groan.

"Consideration has nothing to do with it," Holmes corrected him, "Lestrade would require a warrant to enter the building, which would require waking a Judge. The nearest is Judge Browne, a petty-minded, selfish man at the best of times, who would dismiss any application off hand if it were to interrupt his precious home life and cause him the slightest inconvenience. We would waste valuable time, and all the while Buckhannon's paid agents – the equivalent of my own Irregulars – would no doubt be informing him of our actions. No – I have spent far too much time tonight in tracking him down and disguising my own trail exceedingly carefully. Buckhannon is not as stupid as I allowed myself to believe."

Watson tried to reply, but only managed a pained gasp and another bout of coughing. Holmes crossed to his side, and crouched down next to him, resting a hand on his friend's forehead.

"I think your fever is rising, Watson," Holmes said, quietly, "What can I do?"

"Just… just let me sleep, Holmes," Watson gasped, fumbling to pull the blanket tighter around himself as he shivered, "I… I just… need a bit of… of rest."

Holmes frowned; "You'll forgive me if I doubt your diagnosis, doctor…"

The detective got to his feet, crossed over to the shelves, and selected one of the doctor's thick medical text books. Running his slim finger down the index, he flicked keenly through the pages and read quickly. Four more text books later and he was still dissatisfied. He wondered how doctors could ever make a diagnosis, with so much conflicting information on symptoms and treatment!

Hearing Watson give a low moan, he went back to the couch, frowning down as the other man twisted weakly, caught in some fevered nightmare. He groaned again, breath rattling in his chest, and Holmes swore in helpless frustration. In the end, Holmes settled for the old-fashioned method of soaking a cloth in cold water and applying the cold compress to Watson's forehead. The doctor stirred, but did not awaken.

Holmes drew up a dining chair beside the settee, and sat, keeping a silent vigil over the sickened Watson, even as his mind turned over the problem of how to trap Buckhannon. True, the blackguard had ensconced himself in a derelict public house with little or no apparent defences, but… and it was the 'but' that hung in his mind. That the man had effectively fooled Holmes twice in one day still irked the proud detective immensely, but it also spoke to his opponent's tenacity and capability – each time, it had been by luck more than skill that Holmes and Watson had escaped unscathed. They may not be so lucky next time…

He spent the night renewing the cold cloth with fresh water, in an effort to keep down the low fever that wracked the doctor. Holmes did not sleep, smoke, or play his violin as he normally might, but kept up that steady watch, keeping his mind half on Watson; and the other half on Buckhannon… and half of Holmes's great brain was worth twice that of most men.

Eventually, long after dawn had broken and the sun risen to hang low in the winter sky, Watson coughed, stirred, groaned, coughed again, and slowly opened his eyes. His questioning gaze eventually met Holmes's, and he raised a hand to his head, fingers touching the cold, damp compress, and realisation crept into his expression.

"Ah," he said, hoarsely, his voice sounding slightly stronger than he had the night before, "fever, I take it…?"

"Yes," Holmes said, simply, "I believe that it is broken now, but you need fortification, and rest. I shall call Mrs Hudson to prepare a light breakfast, and then you will rest."

"I am tired of resting," Watson protested, struggling into a sitting position, removing the compress with one hand as he did so, "are we to arrest Buckhannon today?"

"My dear fellow," Holmes smiled, "I am very much afraid that you will have to sit this one out. You really are not well enough to leave the house; Lestrade and I will be able to handle the arrest – it will be straightforward enough. No! Do not waste your breath trying to argue with me," Holmes held up a hand to stave off Watson's protest, "Be honest, doctor – would you allow me to venture outside if I were in your present condition?"

"I doubt that you would listen to me either way," Watson replied, with a tired shrug.

Holmes allowed himself another small smile, went to the door, and bellowed for breakfast, causing Watson to flinch slightly. The doctor stood slowly, waved off all offers of assistance from Holmes, and made it to the dining table, where he sat down heavily, wheezing; one hand clamped to his chest as he leaned forwards in an effort to ease his breathing. Holmes watched him for a moment, and then sat down in his customary place opposite to the doctor.

"You should stay home and rest, Watson," Holmes said, quietly.

"And you, Holmes, should sleep more, eat proper meals, smoke less, lay off the cocaine, and stop spending freezing nights outside in beggar's rags," the doctor shot back, breathlessly.

Holmes suppressed a quirk of amusement, and schooled his face into a cool, emotionless mask.

"Watson, please – I must concentrate on the case," he said, "I… I do not wish to… aggravate your condition… by dragging you out into the cold, simply to witness a straightforward arrest."

Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter the room, bearing a breakfast tray and the morning papers. She bustled around, setting out the plates and dishes, stoking the fire and throwing open the curtains to allow the weak winter sun to seep into the room.

"There you go, gentlemen," she said, airily, "now, make sure you both eat a good breakfast – you both need your strength, but you especially, doctor!"

Their landlady swept out of the room, as Watson hid his flushed face behind his coffee cup. Holmes was already reaching for the papers, as they both studiously ignored the toast and boiled eggs on the table in front of them.

Watson sipped the coffee, gasped as the hot liquid burned his sore throat, choked, and folded up coughing for what felt like the millionth time. He eventually drew breath, and, wiping involuntary tears from his eyes, he looked up to find Holmes staring at him in a mixture of surprise, concern, and apprehension.

"Watson, I…"

The doctor held up one hand, massaging his chest with the other.

"Holmes," he rasped, "just… just promise me you'll make good notes… for… for my journals…"

He folded up again, almost unable to draw breath through the fit that wracked him, and suddenly felt Holmes's thin, strong hands on his arms, all but lifting him to his feet. He felt himself being led towards the settee, where he was guided to lie down. Several pillows and cushions appeared behind his head and shoulders, supporting him, and a blanket was quickly drawn over him.

"Here," Holmes pressed a glass of water into his shaking hands, "at least drink this."

"And… you… must eat…"

"I will, Watson, I will. And then I will go to the chemist and replace that bottle of foul-smelling mixture for you, and you will then take some, and rest."

"And you…?"

"I? I am going to find Lestrade, find a warrant, and find Buckhannon."

~*~


	16. Chapter 16

Watson lay propped up on the settee, watching through half-closed eyes as Holmes reluctantly picked over breakfast, consumed several cups of coffee, and then leapt to his feet.

"I shall send a wire to Lestrade to tell him to meet me with a warrant," Holmes announced, as he paced the room quickly, "while Lestrade is doing his tedious paperwork – for I fear this case must be done by the book – I will have time to go to the pharmacy, and…"

Exhausted, Watson could only reach up and snag Holmes's sleeve as the detective strode passed him again, forcing the other man to stop and crouch down.

"What is it, old fellow?" Holmes asked, quickly, his eyes bright with caffeine and enthusiasm for the case.

"Disguise…" Watson breathed, wincing, "wear… disguise. To… chemist. In case… he's…"

"Hush, Watson," Holmes soothed him, "it is a wise suggestion… and it is half an hour before the chemists opens, so I should have time…"

He ducked into the bedroom as Watson dozed fitfully, until Holmes re-emerged, wearing a greying-haired wig, bushy sideburns, wire-rimmed glasses, along with a long scarf and a shabby grey frock-coat. Watson stared at him for a moment, wondering how he managed to conceal his distinctive features so effectively with little more than putty and powder.

"I will not be long," Holmes promised him, seriously, "rest easy, Watson; I promise I will come back before I go to meet Lestrade."

"Just… just be… be careful…"

Watson watched him leave, closing the door quietly behind him, and the doctor prayed that his friend would be safe, even for such a simple errand…

~*~


	17. Chapter 17

It was to Watson's immense relief that Holmes returned within twenty minutes, gently waking Watson in a slightly out-of-breath way that suggested that he had all but run to the chemists and back again.

"There was no sign of Buckhannon," Holmes reported, in response to a questioning look from Watson, "Lestrade should be here soon with the warrant…"

Watson nodded in understanding, wincing slightly as he forced himself to swallow a large dose of the viscous cough syrup Holmes had purchased for him. Holmes was already stripping off his disguise, and, as he did so, there was a knock at the door, before Mrs Hudson appeared.

"Inspector Lestrade to see you both, doctor," she said, quietly, "are you well enough to have visitors?"

"Yes, of course, show him in, please," Watson said, quickly trying to straighten his hair, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious in his rumpled clothing and dressing gown.

The Scotland Yard Inspector was politely ushered into the room as Mrs Hudson closed the door behind her. Watson quickly gestured for Lestrade to take a seat, smothering a cough behind a handkerchief. Lestrade winced in sympathy.

"I hope you're not planning to join us this morning," Lestrade commented, "no offence, doctor, but you look terrible…"

"Better than I was two days ago," Watson replied, hating how hoarse his voice sounded, "I wish I could come… Holmes has all but tied me to the settee…!"

"And if you attempt to follow us, I will," Holmes joined in, as he left his chambers, straightening his jacket, "Lestrade; you have the warrant?"

"Of course," Lestrade replied, "and there's a station cab outside to get us there in double-quick time. I already have a dozen men in the vicinity, ready to move in at my signal."

"Let us hope that Buckhannon has not identified them," Holmes said, sharply, "I am anticipating a relatively straightforward arrest… but we will not take any chances."

He crossed to the umbrella stand in the corner, where he kept various maps, walking sticks, a fencing foil, and other assorted items of interest. Selecting his heaviest walking stick, the lead weighted "Penang Lawyer", he then retrieved his own gun from a plant-pot on the mantle, loading it carefully. He glanced across at Watson, who was watching him with in apprehension.

"We will be fine, old chap," Holmes promised, airily, "Buckhannon is trapped, like the rat he is. Stay here; we will no doubt be back in an hour or two."

Far from mollified, but knowing there was little that he could do about it, Watson nodded reluctantly. He desperately wanted to go, and watch Holmes's back, to be on hand in case of injury; but by the same token, he did not want to be a liability, the weak link in the chain that was going to surround Buckhannon and see him dance at the end of a rope for his crimes.

"Be careful," he rasped, "all of you."

"We will," Holmes nodded, and with that they were gone.

Watson waited until he heard the front door slam, before he stood, and slowly made his way upstairs to get dressed. Even if he could not go on the arrest, he could make himself ready should anything go wrong…

~*~


	18. Chapter 18

An hour passed, and then two, and then three. Watson had already spent some time checking that his medical bag was fully stocked, and that there was a jug and basin of fresh water within easy reach on the dining room table… just in case. He paced the living room for a while, until, wheezing and coughing, he was forced to sit down in his armchair. He could not concentrate on reading, or writing, or any of his usual distractions, and wondered if it was this intense state of an active mind combined with acute boredom that occasionally drove his friend to use the seven percent solution that Watson so abhorred…

He had eventually settled into half-doze, staring into the fire, when a frantic pounding on the front door snapped him awake with a gasp. A glance at the clock told him that it had been nearly four hours since Holmes and Lestrade had left. The door was flung open and a young police constable came barrelling in, face flushed, blonde hair sweat-soaked and matted to his head, blue eyes wide with panic.

"Dr Watson!" he exclaimed, "Sir! I…we…"

"I'm sorry, doctor," Mrs Hudson said, breathlessly, from behind the young man, "I couldn't stop him, he just…"

"It's fine, Mrs Hudson," Watson replied, grimly, already reaching for his coat, cane and bag, "something's gone wrong with the arrest, hasn't it?"

"It wasn't just the one man, sir," the boy said, his tone pleading, "He'd got reinforcements… there's a lot of wounded men, sir, the police surgeons can't cope, please… please come…"

"I am, lad, easy now," Watson consoled him, "show the way, and summon… summon a cab…"

He broke off, coughing, even as the constable disappeared eagerly down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked at Watson appraisingly.

"You know you're in no state to go running around the city, don't you," she said, resignedly.

"That's why we're taking a cab," Watson replied, lightly.

"Make sure he's alright, won't you?"

"I'm… I'm sure Holmes will be fine."

With that, Watson gave her a respectful nod, and followed the constable down the stairs. The lad had already summoned up a private cab, and Watson quickly climbed in, suppressing a gasp as his chest tightened in protest at the cold air outside.

"What…what's your name, lad?" he wheezed, after the constable had given the cabbie directions and told him to whip up the horse to all speed.

"Lancer, sir. Robbie Lancer."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Not sure, sir," Lancer replied, looking away and not meeting his gaze, "we were told it was a straightforward arrest, but of a dangerous man. When we approached the old pub house, the boards suddenly came away from the windows. There must've been half a dozen men inside – they opened fire. It was bloody, sir… so bloody…"

"Steady, son," Watson told him, gently resting a hand on his shoulder as the younger man drew in a ragged breath, "what happened? What of Holmes and Lestrade?"

"Don't know, sir," Lancer shook his head, "We finally broke in. We were left to deal with the two men left alive inside, while Mr Holmes and the Inspector went to search for this other bloke – Buckhannon? We heard a shot, from the kitchen – when we went in, the Inspector was lying on the floor, blood all over his chest, sir, and we couldn't find Mr Holmes and the other bloke anywhere…"

Lancer was shaking now, and Watson recognised the early signs of shock. He bit back his own terse questions as to where Holmes and Buckhannon could have gone, and instead did his best to console the constable.

"Thank you for coming to fetch me," he said, gently, "you've done the right thing."

"The Inspector said you'd need to know what happened," Lancer said, glancing away again, "said you might be able to help…"

"I hope so, Lancer," Watson sighed, wishing the cab could go faster, "I really hope so…"

~*~


	19. Chapter 19

Lancer eventually called the cab to a stop close to the river bank in a quieter area of the docks, far from the busier main ports, before leading Watson down several tight, twisting alleys and back-streets. Watson just about managed to stop himself from shivering; even in daylight, the place had a seedy, run-down, desperate feel to it. If Buckhannon wanted a secretive, dark, secluded place to hide and plan his evil, there was no better place in all of London, it seemed. Most of the buildings looked like they should be condemned, and a lot of them probably had been.

The old pub was a dark, looming building, with boarded-up windows and a roof that had partially fallen in. Watson's footsteps echoed off the cobbles, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled slightly. An age-old, familiar feeling crept over him; that sixth sense that danger lurked nearby, that something was not right. It was all too quiet, and he felt that he was walking into a trap.

"Damn…"

He paused, coughed, and leaned heavily on his cane. Even with the Yard-owned hansom cabs, which could not have hoped to get through the narrow streets he had just traversed, the Yarders would not have had time to clear out all of their wounded and secure the scene. He also knew that Lestrade would not have given up the search for Holmes so quickly – by rights, this area ought to be crawling with Yarders, searching for Buckhannon and Holmes.

"Lancer," Watson croaked, coughed to clear his throat, and tried again, "Lancer?"

There was no reply. Watson turned, and found himself alone in the street. He cursed under his breath, and looked back towards the pub. The front door was slightly ajar, and all he could see was darkness inside. Watson shook his head; too easy. Buckhannon had caught him that way in the warehouse – Watson had only survived then because Buckhannon was a lousy shot.

Instead, Watson, still clutching his medical bag, made his way around to the side of the house. Eventually, he found a window where one of the boards had slipped. Noiselessly, he reached through the gap, and placed his bag on the floor inside. Enough light seeped in through the boards of the windows that he could see that the room was empty. Bracing himself on the window frame, he pulled himself through the narrow gap, and landed lightly inside the old bar area. His breath caught in his throat, and he smothered a gasp, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it over his mouth, fighting back the urge to cough; he could not betray his presence so soon…

He opened his medical bag, and swallowed a mouthful of cough mixture from the bottle, hoping it would suffice to keep the fit at bay long enough for him to carry out a thorough search. It had become obvious that "Lancer" had lied to him; there was no sign that there had been a gun battle here at all. Watson wondered if the lad was even really a constable; he had seemed very young… it was possible that the uniform had come from a genuine, unfortunate officer… Lestrade had said he had officers in the area; it was possible that Buckhannon had hired a few cronies of his own to take out the Yarders before they had even made it to the pub. Holmes and Lestrade had walked in, oblivious to the fact that they had no back-up at all. Watson silently cursed Buckhannon, as he drew his revolver, and began to look around.

Nothing turned up in the dusty old bar area, save for broken furniture, a dead pigeon and a couple of rats. The wallpaper was yellow and peeling from the walls, revealing plaster that was cracked and black with mould, a testament to the rising damp that must be slowly rotting the whole building. Watson wondered, idly, if the cellars and foundations were flooded – the pub was right on the bank of the Thames, and the foundations would be below the level of the water. It was likely that when the tide rose, the water seeped in, and eroded the sorry old house a little more.

Watson decided to leave his medical bag behind, hidden from sight behind the crumbling bar, keeping his revolver in his right hand and his cane in his left. He crept towards the door, staying low, ignoring the pangs of protest from his chest as he fought to control his breathing. He peered around the door frame, keeping the revolver trained on his line of sight.

Beyond the door, there was a staircase leading to the second floor, which no doubt used to be the guest lodgings. The front door stood slightly ajar to his right, the stairs to the left. Watson eyed the stairs uncertainly; they looked rotten, and many were broken. He doubted that it would be safe to attempt them; if Buckhannon was here, then he would be on the ground floor. Opposite to him, there was another door that stood wide open. He slunk forwards, hiding in the shadows, keeping his back to a wall, as he crouched down and tried to peer into the room. It appeared to be a modest sitting room, beyond which was probably a kitchen.

Inching forwards, Watson carefully made his way into the sitting room. This was definitely Buckhannon's hideout; there was a makeshift bed in one corner, along with a jug of water, several books, and items of clothing scattered around the place. The former physician, on the run from the law and bent on revenge against the consulting detective who had caught him in the first place, had come to London with only one thought on his mind; to avenge himself against Holmes and then, in all likelihood, to leave the country, if the portmanteau of luggage in the corner was anything to go by. Buckhannon was wealthy, and had profited from the murder of rich, elderly patients – this squalor was only a temporary necessity for a man like him.

Watson swallowed a cough again, wishing that he was not wheezing quite so loudly, as he moved towards the kitchen. As soon as he was though the door, Watson's attention was arrested by the sight of an open trap door in the wooden floor, and he drew in a surprised breath.

"Not again…" he breathed, recalling how Buckhannon had trapped Holmes in a tiny cellar in the warehouse the previous day...

A creak of a floorboard behind him reminded him, too late, that he had let his guard down. Watson turned, as a dark shape flew at him. He had pulled the trigger before he even thought about it. There was a gasp of pained surprise, and then a heavy weight slammed into the doctor. Watson cried out as he fell; his head connected solidly with the far edge of the trap door, and as he lost consciousness, his last sensation was one of weightlessness as he and his attacker fell into darkness.

~*~


	20. Chapter 20

_Cold_…

_No_, he corrected himself; _bloody freezing._

"I think he's coming around again."

The voice above him was familiar, but sounded distant. The voice sounded tired, and worried…

_Ouch… my head…_

"Watson?"

Another voice, more familiar than the first, laced with a trace of concern.

_Go away… head hurts… can't think… why is it so cold…?_

"Watson!"

"Huh…?"

Watson forced his eyes open, and instantly regretted it; the low light of a candle being held over him was blinding, and he raised a hand to protect his eyes from the pain. The light suddenly dimmed as the candle was snatched away, and he lowered his hand accordingly, trying to open his eyes. It still hurt, but it was the only way he was going to find out what was going on. It was only then that he recognised the faces that hovered over him in concern.

"H…Holmes… Lestrade…"

"Welcome back, old chap," Holmes gave him a half-smile.

"You had us worried there for a while, doctor," Lestrade told him, "that… that must have been a hell of a knock you took…"

Even in the semi-darkness, Watson could see how pale the Inspector was. He reached up and grasped the Inspector's arm, trying to pull himself up. However, his vision lurched, and two pairs of hands suddenly grabbed him, lowering him back to lie down. He realised then that he was not on the floor; it appeared to be some kind of table, and his head was pillowed on something soft; from the smell of strong tobacco, it was probably Holmes's jacket. The detective stood over him, one hand resting on Watson's shoulder reassuringly.

"Easy, Watson," Holmes cautioned him, "I suspect that you have a very nasty concussion…"

"What happened?" Watson muttered, fuzzily.

"Don't you remember?" Holmes asked, gently.

Watson paused, tried to shake his head, and immediately regretted it as his vision blurred and he had to fight a rising sensation of nausea. Holmes's hand gripped his shoulder gently, until the sensation passed, and Watson was able to open his eyes again.

"You have been perseverating somewhat, my dear fellow," Holmes smiled, "you have asked me that question twice already…"

Watson tried to frown, and agony lanced through his head, making him gasp aloud. Holmes and Lestrade both started in alarm, but he held up his hand to stave them off. Gently, he reached up and touched his forehead. He winced as he did so, as a fiery jolt of pain swept outwards from what was obviously a nasty laceration with sub-dermal haematoma and a resultant concussion… he almost smiled as he felt his thought processes beginning to clear.

"You fell, Watson," Holmes was saying, somewhere above him and to the left, "Buckhannon pushed you into the cellar, and you hit your head on the edge of the trapdoor frame…"

"Buckhannon…!" Watson gasped, as memory came crashing back like a ton of bricks, "He…ah!"

His hand shot to his head again, and he groaned, able to feel the hot lump and dried blood under his hand; no doubt the wound had bled profusely, as head wounds tended to.

"Watson! Relax!" the knot of worry in his voice made Holmes snap, sounding harsher than he had intended, "I'm sorry, old chap – you really must slow down… when you landed down here, covered in blood, we really thought…"

Holmes trailed off, and Watson suddenly realised why both men looked so horribly pale. He must have made quite an entrance. He shivered again, realising that his clothing was oddly damp.

"Buck…Buckhannon?" he coughed out, suppressing a low groan as the activity made his head swim.

"Done for," Lestrade answered him, sounding relieved, "You're one hell of a shot, doctor… he's dead, thank God, but when the two of you landed on that floor…"

He broke off with a wince, and Holmes merely shook his head warningly. Watson coughed again, and this time could not prevent a groan at the pain this sent through his head and chest, even as he shivered. He did not miss the concerned look that passed between Holmes and Lestrade, but he chose to ignore it.

"L…Lestrade," he whispered, wishing he did not sound so hideously weak and helpless, "Lancer… C…Constable Lancer… said you were… injured…"

"I'm sorry, doctor… I don't know any constable by that name…"

"A deception, then," Holmes said, gently, "my dear chap, glad as I am to see you, I fear that you were brought here under false pretences… although the arrest was obviously not as straightforward as I had hoped…"

Watson closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself for having dropped his guard so easily. He felt Lestrade shift slightly.

"Holmes," the Inspector muttered, sounding worried, "Holmes, the water… it's still rising…"

_Water…?_ _What water?_

"Watson," Holmes's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly, "You need to stay conscious, dear fellow; our predicament grows more serious, and we need to find a way out of here…"

"Holmes?" Watson groaned, trying desperately to cling to coherency, "What… what's happening?"

Holmes glanced down.

"We are in the cellar beneath the house," he explained, "the staircase to the kitchen has long since collapsed. We have found no way out… and the cellar, it seems, is no longer water-tight. We are too close to the bank of the Thames… and the tide is coming in."

Watson heard a gentle splash, as Holmes moved. Turning his head a fraction to the left, his heart skipped a beat, and he groaned in dismay. The detective was knee-deep in filthy water, and the level was steadily rising.

~*~


	21. Chapter 21

Holmes glanced around. The single candle that he usually carried in his coat pocket to investigate darkened rooms was doing little to light the dingy cellar. It was a fairly large room, but it was no doubt secondary to the cellar beneath the bar area where the barrels of drink would have been safely stored. The water level had been creeping up at the rate of about two inches every half an hour; Holmes and Lestrade had been down in the cellar for a good three or four hours, since they had entered the old pub after Lestrade's back-up had failed to materialise in time. Lestrade had urged caution, but Holmes's impatience had got the better of him.

Their mistake had been to split up; when Holmes had heard Lestrade's terrified yell from the kitchen, he had recklessly rushed in and then been forced into the water-logged cellar at gunpoint.

Holmes recalled, bitterly, how Buckhannon had gloated over them both, unable to escape the slow flooding, telling them both how they were about to die a long, slow, cold, painful death by drowning as the water level rose. The former doctor had described with undisguised glee how hypothermia would take hold even as they tried to swim, deadening the limbs and numbing the mind, until unconsciousness took hold and they would sink like stones into the depths.

He also recalled the cold fear in the pit of his stomach when he had heard someone creeping around above, and he had recognised the distinctive, slightly limping step before he had heard the muffled, wheezing breath. Holmes refrained from calling out; Buckhannon still lurked nearby, and he had no desire to distract Watson. Hearing Buckhannon's cry of anger as he launched a wild attack had made both Holmes and Lestrade gasp aloud, and Holmes, completely against his usual nature, had actually grabbed Lestrade's arm when the gunshot had sounded, and, seconds later, two bodies had fallen into their impromptu prison.

Holmes had immediately crossed over to them, through the shallow water. Buckhannon, he was relieved to see, was dead. Watson was deathly pale, a deep laceration on his temple bleeding heavily, and even in unconsciousness, he was struggling to breath. Holmes quickly lifted him, thankful that the water had not been deep enough at that point to submerge the comatose doctor.

Lestrade had helped him to build a makeshift bed out of a couple of old, rotten barrels (sadly, too damaged and mouldered to stand on in any escape attempt through the trapdoor, Holmes noted) and two lengths of water-stained wood. Clearly, the cellar flooded on a daily basis, if the water marks on the wall and the general stench of damp decay were anything to go by. Holmes frowned and crossed to the wall, holding the candle up as far as he could reach. The cellar was deep; at least fifteen feet from floor to ceiling, and Holmes reflected that Watson had been very lucky not to sustain any more serious injury when he had fallen. Landing on Buckhannon's body had probably saved his life.

"Holmes, for goodness' sake man, bring that light back here, will you?" Lestrade called, impatiently.

"Inspector, I am attempting to find some way out of here," Holmes shot back, "Now that we no longer risk getting our heads blown off by Buckhannon if we attempt to leave, that open trap door remains our best – indeed; our only – way out of this infernal hole."

Lestrade took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and let out a long sigh.

"And, pray tell me, how does that wall assist us?" he asked, tiredly.

"Look," Holmes held up the candle, "do you not see?"

"I see nothing."

"I see a watermark," Holmes replied, turning back to the wall, examining it closely, "a clearly delineated marker indicative of the daily flooding this cellar is subjected to, and a definitive assessment of the amount of water likely to enter our prison."

Holmes turned away, distantly noting that the water level was rising even more rapidly now, and it was up to his hip. Lestrade, several inches shorter than Holmes, was almost waist-deep in the filthy liquid, which lapped at the edges of Watson's rough bed. No doubt, as the tide came in, so too the amount of water coming into the cellar increased with the river's depth, thus increasing the water flow into the room.

"Holmes, that watermark must give us about thirteen feet of water coming in," Lestrade realised, "this whole building is going to fall into the river someday soon!"

"Not today, at least," Holmes replied, calmly, "besides; that is hardly our greatest worry at this moment in time. On the assumption that the half-dozen men whom you arranged to assist us are incapacitated, we are forced to assume that nobody else knows we are here. We must therefore make our own escape."

"You already tried standing on my shoulders," Lestrade growled, massaging his left shoulder meaningfully, "we've already established that won't work – besides, there's no guarantee you'd get back in time with assistance."

He indicated the rapidly rising water, and Holmes nodded.

"The intended cause of our untimely damp demise might also be the saving grace of our situation," Holmes replied, cryptically, crossing to the table again.

He very gently placed his hand on Watson's shoulder, and, as he had hoped, the doctor turned to look at him, although his eyes were clouded and dull with pain, illness and fatigue.

"Watson," Holmes said, gently, "I am sorry, my dear fellow, but I'm afraid that I must ask you to sit up… the water is rising rapidly, and will soon submerge your resting place…"

"Of… of course," Watson agreed, vaguely.

Holmes very gently slid his hand beneath the doctor's shoulder, and slowly eased him into a sitting position. The movement, no matter how gentle, almost proved to be too much; Watson gasped, and gave a low moan, and would have fallen from the table had Lestrade not lunged forwards and grabbed his other arm, supporting him from the other side.

"S…sorry," Watson stammered, shivering, coughing; "s…so…sorry…"

"Easy, old chap," Lestrade told him, warmly, "we're… we're going to get you out of here soon…"

The Inspector looked across at Holmes hopefully, and the detective nodded.

"We must wait," Holmes told them both, keeping a tight hold of Watson, holding him upright, "when the water is deep enough, we should be able to reach the trapdoor. I have no doubt Buckhannon intended to avoid that eventuality by closing the door on us; however, with it still open, we have a good chance of escaping if we can keep our heads above water for long enough…"

"We'll have to swim for a while," Lestrade said, dubiously.

"C…can't…"

Holmes caught Watson as the doctor almost keeled over into the water. He was sitting on the edge of the table, legs already submerged. Holmes carefully sat down next to him, feeling the wood creak in protest. It would not be strong enough for all three of them to stand on, as he had hoped, to save their energy just a little longer by postponing the need to tread water. Watson slumped against him with a low groan, his head resting against Holmes's shoulder, as the detective held him in an awkward embrace. Watson, for his part, was barely able to keep his head up.

"Watson? Stay with us, doctor!" Holmes said, pulling his friend upright a little more, wrapping one arm around the doctor's shoulders.

"Holmes… I… I can't…" Watson choked, and broke off coughing.

Holmes frowned; Watson looked terribly pale, and he could feel the other man shivering in his damp clothes. The livid mark on his forehead stood out even in the dim light, and Holmes was alarmed at the way he seemed to be struggling to draw breath. Holmes knew that he and Lestrade had a good chance of surviving prolonged exposure to the frigid water with little more than a bit of a chill, but Watson looked all but done-in already…

Holmes felt his heart drop when Watson forced his head up to meet the detective's worried gaze.

"Holmes," he rasped, "I can't swim."

~*~


	22. Chapter 22

"I would say you're about to learn, doctor," Lestrade replied, dryly, "Holmes, the water…"

"I know, Lestrade," Holmes replied, in a low, terse voice.

The water was veritably pouring into the room now, probably through some crack in the wall or floor; there was nothing more to be done. Even sitting on the table, Holmes and Watson were both in the water up to their waists. Lestrade also climbed up onto the table, kneeling on it, shivering violently. By now, all three of them were chilled to the bone. Holmes held the candle clear of the rising water, committing the layout of the room to memory, and, most importantly, the location of the trapdoor that was their one chance of survival.

Holmes was distracted by an odd noise. Before his great brain had a chance to warn him what was happening, the wood beneath them suddenly splintered. The barrels collapsed, and the three of them were pitched into the turgid waters.

Holmes reacted swiftly, getting his legs under him and standing up, not letting go of Watson, dragging the doctor above the surface as they both coughed and spat out water. Lestrade emerged a split second later, staggering to his feet, almost chest deep in the icy water. The candle had been extinguished and lost; the only light they had was what seeped through the trapdoor opening into the kitchen above.

Watson clutched at Holmes's jacket, and Holmes was desperately trying to think of a reassurance to utter, when the doctor suddenly shuddered, and went limp. Holmes yelped and grabbed him before he could disappear below the surface again.

"Lestrade! Your assistance!"

"Oh, God," Lestrade waded over to them, supporting Watson from the other side, "Holmes, we need to get out of here…"

"I am well aware of that, Inspector!" Holmes snapped at him, "Panicking will not help any of us, least of all Watson. Can you swim?"

"Yes," Lestrade nodded, "Been a while since I had cause to…"

"A skill, once learned, is rarely forgotten," Holmes told him, adjusting his grip on Watson as the water rose to their shoulders, "You will need to get through the hatch, when we are buoyed close enough by the water, and I will pass Watson to you."

"Fine," Lestrade nodded, already beginning to tread water, "what about… Buckhannon's body…?"

"Come back for it later, if you must," Holmes replied, bluntly, "I would simply leave it here to rot."

Lestrade did not waste his breath on a retort at Holmes's attitude to their would-be killer, as he tried to keep his head above the water. There was still a good two feet to go before the water reached its maximum level. Between himself and Holmes, they fought to keep Watson above water; in brief moments of lucidity, the doctor tried to assist, but even Lestrade could see him weakening rapidly. They almost lost him on several occasions as he released his grip and slipped beneath the surface, only to be dragged back up again by the determined Holmes.

After an agonising, indeterminable length of time, Lestrade swam forwards, and, reaching up, his fingers brushed against the lip of the trapdoor. He almost sobbed with relief when he tried again and snagged a hand-hold on the edge. Committing the last of his failing reserves of energy, he tightened his grip, pulled his other hand free of the water, and eventually managed to haul himself out. He wasted no time in turning, lying flat on the floor, reaching back down into the cellar. Watson, barely conscious, reached up towards him, with Holmes's encouragement, and Lestrade grabbed the doctor's wrists, hauling with all his strength. Watson managed to grab the edge of the trapdoor, and, after he helped to pull himself free, he all but collapsed onto Lestrade.

Easing the doctor gently to the floor, Lestrade turned in time to see Holmes climbing out of the pit, dripping wet and shivering. The detective turned, kicked the trapdoor shut, and it fell into place with a resounding thud that shook the house ominously.

Lestrade, on his hands and knees, was too spent to even speak, as Holmes quickly crossed to Watson. The Inspector watched as Holmes gently lifted Watson's head into the crook of his arm, supporting him as Watson coughed and choked, shivering uncontrollably. Lestrade staggered to his feet, disappearing into the other room. He reappeared with an armful of blankets and clothing. He shook out one of the blankets, quickly wrapping it around Watson.

"Buckhannon's clothes are in there," Lestrade pointed, "I suggest you go and change out of those wet things, Holmes – no, for once, don't argue! You'll be no good to any of us with hypothermia. Don't worry, I'll watch him."

Holmes carefully laid Watson on the floor, as he stood up, quirking one eyebrow as Lestrade stripped off his wet shirt, dried himself off as best he could, and began to pull on a dry one liberated from Buckhannon's luggage.

"A dead man's clothes, Inspector Lestrade?"

"Beggars can't be choosers, Mr Holmes."

Holmes gave a bark of a laugh and slipped into the other room to change. Lestrade leaned over Watson, quickly stuffing a rolled up jacket under his head as a makeshift pillow, and piling on another blanket from Buckhannon's bed. Watson groaned, and shifted.

"Holmes?"

"Right here, old fellow," the detective appeared at Lestrade's elbow, fastening the top button on a jacket that was about two sizes too big for his weight, and far too short in the sleeve and body for his lanky frame, "we'll have you out of here soon…"

"My… my bag… in… in the bar…"

"I'll get it," Lestrade volunteered, quickly.

~*~


	23. Chapter 23

Holmes watched Lestrade go, and then turned back to Watson, who was wavering on the edge of consciousness.

"Watson, you must stay awake," Holmes told him, speaking slowly and clearly, "at least until we can get you home…"

Watson mumbled something under his breath, coughing weakly; Holmes sighed, realising already that the dip in the icy water would have done nothing for the doctor's already poor health… when the coughing did not abate, Holmes leaned forwards in alarm, quickly lifting Watson into a sitting position, easing the pressure on his chest.

"Easy, Watson, easy," Holmes muttered to him, "that's it… just breathe…"

The fit subsided, but Holmes did not let go as Watson slumped against him, utterly spent, his breath rattling in his chest as he wheezed horribly. Lestrade reappeared with the medical kit, and gaped momentarily before being pinned by Holmes's glare. He snapped himself back to action.

"I'm going to find the nearest constable, and get a cab," he announced, "I'll have a police surgeon – a good one! – Meet us at Baker Street…"

Without waiting for a response, the Inspector took off at a run. Holmes opened the medical bag, pleased to find it fully stocked, but slightly uncertain of what to do first. Watson seemed to sense his trepidation, as the doctor reached out from under the blanket, snagged the bag, and pulled it closer. With his shaking free hand, he pointed to a bottle.

"This first," he rasped, "antiseptic. Clean the wound… that water was filthy…"

"Wouldn't you prefer a painkiller first?" Holmes asked, as he pulled out the indicated bottle.

"C… can't risk… loosing consciousness…" Watson fought to get the words out, wheezing and gasping painfully.

"Quiet, my dear fellow," Holmes told him, applying some of the sharp-smelling antiseptic to a lump of cotton gauze, "please, save your breath… Now; I imagine that this is going to be deucedly painful…"

Watson swallowed, and then hissed as Holmes began to clean the livid wound with a hand that shook slightly, as he carefully worked to remove the crusted blood and filth from the river water. Satisfied with his work, and pleased to see that the wound was not too deep, Holmes tossed the stained gauze over his shoulder.

"B… bandage," Watson gasped.

"I am ahead of you, Watson," Holmes replied, holding up the roll of crepe bandaging and a fresh piece of gauze, "I am afraid that this will not be as neat as your handiwork, but it will have to suffice…"

Holmes pressed the gauze in place and Watson raised one shaking hand to hold it there, leaving Holmes free to use both hands to carefully wrap a bandage in place, tying it off as neatly as he could.

"What next?" Holmes asked, seeing Watson's eyes starting to close, "Stay awake, Watson! I need your help. What do I do next?"

Again, the shaking hand reached out, touching one of the bottles in the bag; "This one… for…"

Watson broke off, coughing, and Holmes quickly uncorked the bottle, and, holding up Watson's head with one hand, he used the other to help him take a sip of the noxious-smelling medicine straight from the bottle.

With little else that could be done in the damp, mouldering old pub, Holmes contented himself with kneeling on the floor, listening to the sounds of the water of the river outside and beneath them, with Watson's head resting on the detective's knees in an effort to ease his tortured breathing. When Lestrade finally arrived, with Inspector Gregson, a sergeant and a constable in tow, Holmes had never been so relieved to see the arrival of Scotland Yard at any crime scene before in his life.

~*~


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: My apologies for the doubled chapter; I don't know how I managed that! Thanks to those people who pointed it out; here's what you should have got..._

_~*~_

"There's a coach waiting less than five minutes' walk away, Mr Holmes," Lestrade reported, quickly, "How… how is Dr. Watson?"

"He will fare much better if we can get him somewhere warm and dry," Holmes replied, glancing down at the semi-conscious man before him, "Watson… Watson, old chap, it is time to leave…"

Watson's eyes flickered open, and he looked uncertain for a moment, before he gave a tentative nod. Holmes helped him to his feet, steadying him as a dizzy spell threatened to send him crashing back to the floor.

Holmes took Watson's arm and led him out of the decrepit building. It was already growing dark outside, and Holmes realised with a jolt just how much time they had spent in that dank, awful cellar. Lestrade showed them the way to the waiting cab, carrying Watson's black bag, while Gregson and the others remained behind to investigate the old pub.

The three of them made it about halfway, and Holmes felt Watson's shivering abruptly cease. Holmes was just fast enough to catch his friend as he collapsed, lifting him quickly into his arms.

"Lestrade!" Holmes snapped.

The Inspector swung around in time to see the doctor fall, even as Holmes lifted him easily, proving the detective's legendary strength.

"This way, Holmes," Lestrade gestured, quickening his pace, "I've already asked Dr Knightsbury to meet us at Baker Street… is there anything we can do?"

"We can make haste, Lestrade," Holmes replied, a little breathlessly, as he carried Watson in his arms through the darkening alleyways, "I hope the cabbie has a fast horse!"

They soon reached the cab, which was a large four wheeler; not as fast as a two-wheel trap, but infinitely more comfortable, and at least it would protect them from the cold air. Holmes's breath misted in front of his face, as Lestrade climbed into the cab and, between them, they lifted Watson up. Holmes climbed inside, barking an order at the cab driver, slamming the door as the hansom took off down the street. Lestrade had managed to prop Watson up on one of the seats, and was haphazardly searching through the medical bag he had been carrying.

"Unless you have a medical degree, Lestrade, I suggest you leave things alone," Holmes told him, sitting down beside Watson and holding him upright as the cab slewed sharply around a corner.

"Looking for smelling salts," Lestrade muttered, as he searched, "I think we need to wake him up… he's completely non-responsive… can't be a good thing…"

Holmes sighed, reached out, took the bag, and withdrew a small bottle from a side pocket. Lestrade, slightly abashed, watched as Holmes removed the stopper, and waved it under Watson's nose. There was a long moment, and then the doctor's face wrinkled in disgust, and he coughed, waving away the pungent aroma. Holmes quickly replaced the cork and carelessly tossed the bottle at Lestrade, as his fingers snagged Watson's still-damp sleeve.

"Stay awake, Watson," he said, firmly, "we are almost home… you can rest there."

"Buckhannon…" Watson murmured, "Where… where is he? What happened?"

Holmes exchanged a worried glance with Lestrade, before the Inspector leaned out of the window and hollered at the cabbie to go faster. The rest of the ride took only minutes, but to Holmes and Lestrade it felt like a lifetime. Eventually, the cab clattered to a stop outside the Baker Street lodgings, and Holmes chivvied the half-conscious Watson out of the cab, and inside. Mrs Hudson was already waiting for them at the door, wringing her hands anxiously.

"Oh my," she exclaimed, when she saw the sorry sight of the three men, "get in, get in – I'll make some hot tea… there are blankets already warming by the fire in the sitting room, and Dr. Knightsbury is here from the Yard…"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Lestrade tipped his head towards her politely as Holmes murmured something that might have been thanks, the detective all but carrying Watson up the stairs.

~*~


	25. Chapter 25

Holmes kicked open the door to the living room, and was met with a wonderful blast of warmth from the fire, which blazed mightily in the hearth. It made him realise just how frozen to the bone he really was. He also realised that he was exhausted; his powerful skills of observation all but gone – he had only just realised the presence of another, an elderly gentleman with a white moustache and a mane of silvery-grey hair, who rose from the couch to meet them.

"My dear fellow, you must be Mr Holmes," the man rumbled, in a deep baritone; "I am Dr. Knightsbury, police surgeon and private Harley Street practitioner. Quickly, lay that poor chap down on the bed through here…"

Holmes obeyed wordlessly, too spent to speak, not caring to point out that it was his bedroom that the doctor had indicated. For Watson's sake, he would have given it up without a thought.

"H-Holmes?" Watson rasped, raising his head slightly.

"Hush, Watson, it is all over now. We are home," Holmes murmured to him, keeping one of the doctor's arms over Holmes's own shoulders, as the detective led him through to the adjoining room, "it's time for you to rest now…"

They both staggered through to the bedroom, and Holmes carefully set Watson down on the bed, assisted by Knightsbury. The older doctor assessed his patient quickly, and turned piercing blue eyes on Holmes.

"Dear fellow, you are freezing and fit to collapse," the doctor declared; "do go and change into some warm clothes, sit by the fire, and drink some tea. I will see to you more fully later."

"Just see to Watson," Holmes replied, fighting back the exhaustion, "is he…?"

"I will speak to you later," the doctor replied, firmly, pressing a dressing gown into Holmes's hands and pushing him gently but insistently out of the door, "leave him to me. I will call you in shortly. Now go and warm up!"

Ejected from the room, Holmes was too stunned to argue. Lestrade was already ensconced in Watson's usual armchair, wrapped in a blanket and sipping hot tea, as Mrs Hudson looked on approvingly. Holmes soon found himself similarly cocooned with blankets and tea, as his erstwhile landlady fussed over them both like a mother over her errant sons.

Lestrade soon nodded off, dozing in the warmth of the fire, so much appreciated after their swim in the freezing cellar. Holmes certainly had not intended to get so comfortable, and he definitely had no intention of following Lestrade's example. He was therefore most annoyed with himself when he found himself being awoken by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said, withdrawing her hand quickly, "but Dr. Knightsbury wanted to see you…"

Holmes had bolted from the chair before she had even finished speaking, casting aside the blankets hastily. Mrs Hudson sighed, reaching down to pick them up again, hanging them over a drying rack in front of the fire to warm them again. Lestrade showed no indication of stirring, so she smiled, and left him to his rest.

~*~


	26. Chapter 26

Holmes threw open the door of his chambers, and Knightsbury gave him a mildly reproving look, as the tall detective crossed to the bed hesitantly, wringing his hands in an unconscious expression of his concern. Holmes kept his eyes fixed on the occupant of the bed, letting his analytical mind tell him what he needed to know.

Watson lay there, almost as white as the sheets, propped up on so many pillows that he was almost sitting upright. There was a clean, neat bandage around his head, and he was wrapped in several warm blankets. A low fire smouldered in the grate, warming the room, as Knightsbury began to pack up his bag, which Holmes had already observed was larger and far more ornate than Watson's; Knightsbury obviously served a wealthier client base.

"He told me that he has bronchitis," Knightsbury informed Holmes, as he continued to repack his bag, "I agree with that diagnosis, but he also has a severe concussion. I have administered a strong dose of laudanum for the pain and to make him sleep for a while. He has a mild fever, although I fear this may be artificially low as he was extremely chilled when you arrived – the fever may rise sharply. If it does, you should summon the nearest physician – I have sent word to three competent fellows all within five streets of here that they should respond urgently to your summons."

"But he will recover," Holmes said, in a low voice, as he stood by the bed.

Knightbursy closed his bag with a snap, and turned towards Holmes.

"If he is strong, he will survive it," the doctor replied, bluntly, "the head wound is relatively superficial and did not even require stitches. It will heal without further treatment; I doubt that there will even be a scar. The bronchitis and fever could be dangerous; he was not hypothermic when you came in, which is a blessing, but if the fever begins to rise, summon a physician, and try to keep the fever down with cold compresses."

"What can I do?"

"Try to wake him occasionally and get him to drink warm water or weak tea," Knightsbury advised, "to avoid dehydration. Administer laudanum or pure morphine if necessary for the pain – if you cannot bring yourself to inject it, at least get him to drink it instead."

"I am familiar with the procedure for administering injections," Holmes told him, a trifle testily, "anything else?"

"Do not exhaust yourself, Mr Holmes," Knightsbury said, gently, "you are no good to him if you push yourself to collapse. You looked dangerously close to it when you came in; you need to warm yourself, eat a decent meal, and get some sleep."

Holmes chose not to reply, as Knightsbury hefted his bag and headed for the door.

"I'll send my bill to Scotland Yard," the doctor said, and closed the door behind him.

Holmes head him exchange a few pleasantries with Mrs Hudson, before the sitting room door closed, and, a few moments later, he heard the distant thud as the front door closed as well. Silence fell over the household; no doubt Mrs Hudson had busied herself in the kitchen, and Lestrade was still asleep in the sitting room. Holmes quickly stripped off the clothes he had obtained from Buckhannon's luggage, and changed into his own clothes, pulling on a dressing gown over the top for good measure and additional warmth. He then sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, leaning forward slightly.

"Watson?"

There was no response – his friend was sleeping soundly, and the only sound in the room was the steady, albeit laboured breathing. Holmes reached out, hesitated, and then gently adjusted the blankets a little. Watson did not even stir. There was a gentle knock at the door, but Holmes ignored it. This did not dissuade Mrs Hudson, however, who walked in regardless, carrying a tea tray balanced against her hip as she pushed the door open.

"He's going to be asleep a while yet," she commented, even as she began to lay out cups and saucers on the dresser, "you should get some sleep, you know."

Homes did not reply, even as she pressed a cup of tea into his hands and draped a blanket over his shoulders, before she slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her. Holmes drank the tea without really tasting it, and automatically got up and poured himself another. He found numerous small jobs to do – stoking the fire, sorting some of his case notes, staring out of the window – but he invariably found himself drawn back to sit on the bed. The hour grew later, and Lestrade eventually nipped into the room to give his regards before he left for home. Mrs Hudson retired to bed, and still Holmes maintained his vigil at the bedside, a gas lamp lit low, the crackle of the fire keeping the room comfortably warm despite the chill outside.

Sitting on the bed, Holmes leaned back against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed, and carefully drew his knees up beneath his chin, taking care not to disturb Watson.

"Oh, Watson," Holmes sighed, at last, breaking the silence, "Why? Why did it have to be you?"

There was no reply; Holmes had not expected one. He listened, his chest tightening in sympathy as he heard Watson's rasping breath hitching with every laboured inhalation.

Holmes had almost dozed off, seated as he was at the end of the bed, when his head suddenly snapped up in response to a noise; one so soft he might have dreamt it. Then he heard it again; a low moan.

"Watson?"

Holmes scrambled forwards, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forwards urgently; "Watson?"

Another moan was his only response, and Holmes reached out, turning up the gas lamp slightly. His heart went cold; Watson seemed to be asleep, but he was shivering slightly, and there was a slight flush to his otherwise pale countenance. Holmes reached out and laid his hand across Watson's forehead, and swore colourfully. The fever was rising, as Knightsbury had feared.

Getting to his feet quickly, Holmes poured some water from the jug on his washstand into a large china bowl, and pulled a clean handkerchief from his drawer. Soaking the material in the cold water, he wrung it out, folded it up, and carefully draped it over Watson's forehead, allowing the cold water to soak the edge of the bandage slightly. Holmes thought about removing the wrapping, but decided against it; if Watson became delirious, he did not want to cause any further damage to the recent injury.

Knightsbury had said to call for a doctor, but Holmes knew from bitter experience and conversations with Watson that there was little that a physician could do to control a fever any more than Holmes himself could do, especially with access to Watson's medical supplies and texts. He quietly retrieved Watson's medical bag, fishing out the thermometer. He had observed Watson often enough to know how to take a temperature – still, he had to hold it in place as Watson groaned and muttered feverishly. Holmes checked the reading; 104f. He swore again; any higher than that, and it could be dangerous. He peeled back the blankets, loosening the collar button of the nightshirt Watson was wearing, no doubt after being ordered to change into it by Knightsbury before the other doctor had mercilessly sedated him.

"Watson," Holmes said, speaking slowly and clearly, "Watson, old fellow, it's me… Holmes… can you hear me?"

He got no response except a groan, and a wracking cough that made him flinch. He renewed the cold compress, hovering worriedly beside the bed.

The night dragged by slowly, but Holmes did not rest, maintaining his vigil. Eventually, as dawn broke over the horizon, so, too, did Watson's fever finally break, after reaching a crisis at 105f. Holmes all but collapsed onto the foot of his bed as Watson finally slept, a proper, restful sleep, not drug-induced or broken by fevered rambling.

~*~


	27. Chapter 27

Holmes awoke several hours later to find the sun was streaming in through the window, and that someone had draped a blanket over his legs at some point. He yawned, feeling tired and sore from having slept propped up against the bedpost, his legs stretched out on the bed before him, next to where Watson lay, still fast asleep. Holmes carefully stood, and was surprised when the familiar hazel eyes flickered open in response to the movement.

"Watson?"

"Holmes?"

The voice that answered him was little more than a croak, but Holmes had to hide his delighted smile by turning away to pour some water into a glass.

"Here, drink this," he said.

Watson obediently took the glass between two shaking hands, and sipped at it slowly, swallowing with a wince.

"We made it out of the cellar…?"

"How much do you remember?" asked Holmes, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Watson's recollections were sketchy at best, and Holmes filled in the details as briefly as he could, before calling an end to the conversation when Watson's breathing became laboured again.

"More later, old fellow," Holmes promised, "for now, get some rest."

"You… you have to do the same," Watson wheezed, pointedly, "use…my bed…"

"Ever the doctor, never the patient," Holmes shot back, with a bark of a laugh, "Very well. If it will make you sleep easy…"

Nonetheless, Holmes waited until he was sure Watson was asleep and breathing properly, before he went out into the sitting room with a blanket, and stretched out on the settee for a nap, feeling more at ease than he had for weeks.

~*~

It was nearly two weeks before Watson was up and about as usual. Late one evening, he and Holmes were sat by the fire in the sitting room. Watson was writing up the case notes in a journal as Homes smoked idly, staring into the fire, and answering the occasional question where Watson's recollections faltered slightly.

"There's one thing I haven't worked out yet," Watson remarked, setting down his pen and glancing across at Holmes, "who was that boy Buckhannon hired to lure me over to the house?"

"I have been working on that fact myself," Holmes replied, absently, not taking his eyes off the fire, "Buckhannon spent a lot of time goading and gloating over the cellar in which Lestrade and I were so unfortunately imprisoned. However, he made no mention of your imminent arrival, and seemed surprised when he heard someone moving about in the pub – he thought we had brought additional yard officers with us."

"But… if Buckhannon did not pay the boy to pretend to be a police officer, who did? We had no indication this time around that Buckhannon had an assistant."

"Indeed," Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and studied the stem thoughtfully, "Watson… I have no wish to alarm you, but I believe that there is someone in London who plans our mutual demise."

"Why, Holmes! Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, my dear fellow, that there are those who carry out crimes, and those who plan crimes. These may not always be the same people. In several of our cases of late I have seen indications of a greater mind at work behind the scenes…like a shadow on the streets of London, I sense in this case that this person was aware of Buckhannon's actions, and, although not directly involved, took the opportunity to make an attempt on our lives."

Watson froze momentarily, a horrifying thought crossing his mind.

"Moriarty?" he whispered, "Moran?"

"The former is dead and the latter in a penal colony," Holmes replied, bluntly, "I have checked. No… I fear that in their absence there was a sudden vacancy at the top of the hierarchy of the echelons of criminal society… I have worked hard to avoid having that vacancy filled, and it appears that someone intends to fill it, if they have not done so already… our deaths are planned to avoid our meddling in this person's affairs."

"What are we to do, then?" Watson said, quietly, a determined note creeping into his voice, "Holmes, I have no intention of fleeing to the continent this time around…"

"Nor shall we," Holmes replied, finally looking across at his friend, "We shall stay. We shall feign ignorance of my suspicions. And we shall observe, gather evidence, and deduce. And then, when the time is right, we will make our move."

There was a long moment of silence, as the two men both stared into the fire.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"When we do go after this person, whoever he may be… please can you try to avoid the cellars?"

"Yes, Watson."

Holmes hid his smile by biting down on the pipe stem, as Watson picked up the journal, and returned to his writings.

~*~

FINIS

~*~


End file.
